B r i c k W a l l :
by Pinkjimmychoos
Summary: DoyleNadia why is Doyle the way he is? Angsty love story with flashbacks to Mike's childhood... I'm terrible at summaries sorry! Spoilers for S6 and a vague spoiler for S7. **MULTI CHAPTER**COMPLETE!**
1. Chapter 1

**Brick Wall**

**A/N:** The first fanfic I've posted though I've read most of them on here! Love the whole Nadia/Doyle relationship and have written other stories about them, though most of them are much longer than this one and are still on-going. Was hoping for feedback and if maybe people feel this story can go anywhere else as have whole back story thing planned for Doyle and why he's the way he is?? Please be constructive (but not too harsh!) Also, let's assume, for the sake of argument, that Doyle returns to CTU after a long absence, with some degree of his eye-sight returned and Nadia has picked up the post of director- it makes things easier!!! If people like this then I promise it will all make sense again with later chapters! This is kind of a prologue thing.

**Disclaimers:** They ain't mine, but if they were they'd definitely be back in Season 7.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled and meant it. Or the last time he'd laughed with any degree of sincerity.

He always felt the lead weight sat in his stomach, and the aching in his heart.

It had been that way for as long as he could remember.

Then he met her.

And he fell in love.

And that ache in his heart grew even worse.

Because he knew she'd never love him back.

Who would ever love _him_?

He was nothing.

That was what he'd always been told, right from when he was a kid.

Tell someone something often enough and they start believing it.

She loves him, but she isn't really sure why.

It's not as if he's wooed her with flowers, charmed her with his dazzling personality.

He puts up a stony façade, but _she_ knows it's just that: a façade.

She looks into his icy blue eyes and can sense the pain and the hurt that he tries to mask so well and has hidden for so long.

He hurts, even as his eyes burn with intensity and a need for him to strive to do his job to the best of his ability.

She feels a connection to him, despite the way he always tries to push her away from him. It stings, but he does it with everybody. He has no friends, is a loner.

He interrogated her and it hurt, but she knew he didn't want to do it.

She has to be his boss now, and they argue. They have ever since he came back to work. Sometimes all hell breaks loose and people have to separate them because of the way insults are spat and the way they both yell.

She can shout just as loud as he can.

But she senses that behind his abrupt, argumentative demeanour that he's not always the ruthless bastard that he comes across as. She knows that a long time ago, someone hurt him, and since then, he's never been the same. He doesn't have to tell her this.

But she knows it anyway.

And it is for these reasons that she knows he will probably never love her back but makes her love him all the more.

The knowledge hurts her, but she really doesn't know how to make things any better.

There is a brick wall between them, and she eagerly anticipates the day it might start to crumble.

**Fini ****Feedback will make me smile!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Broken Promises****- Chapter One**

**A/N: Glad people seemed to like the first chapter. Thanks for your kind reviews! The next couple are going to delve a little deeper into the psyche of Mike Doyle so we find out a little more about why he's the way he is. It might be a little bit upsetting for those of you who aren't keen on violence, but on with the story! Hope you like! As ever, please review if you want to see more. **

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He was ten the first time his father beat him. Old enough to really sense the pain of what was going on, yet his young mind was still confused as to why it had happened and what he'd actually done wrong to deserve it.

He'd come back from school that afternoon to be greeted by an empty house and a note on the mantle- _I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry._

The silence was deafening. Mike's eyes were hooded with confusion.

Bewildered, he'd stared at the scrap of paper, the words written in his mothers slanting hand, trying to comprehend what they meant and why he'd came home to an empty house. To this day, he still didn't know if the note had been left for him to find, or his father.

It didn't matter anymore.

Nothing mattered.

Hungry and with no food in the house save for some mouldy cheese and some out of date pickles, Mike drank some tap water and had retreated to his tiny bedroom and read a tatty comic book, trying to ignore the pitiful pangs of hunger that gripped him. He hadn't eaten properly in days. Mom had been upset most mornings, hadn't given him any lunch money all week, and he knew better than to ask his father. Home-cooked meals on an evening? They barely had enough money to pay their rent, as his father drank much of the meagre household income, or gambled- both were bad enough. In the Doyle household, groceries were a novelty. Three-day old milk and stale bread was considered a luxury.

When his daddy had got home later that night, all hell had broken loose. He'd snatched up the note in disbelief, bloodshot eyes watering with the booze, and perhaps unshed tears.

Timidly, Mike had watched him rant and rave from the safety underneath his bed. He knew that when dad got like this, it was best to hide. Drink turned him into a nasty person, as mom had told him softly one day. A heart to heart confession a couple of summer's earlier.

_Shhh Mikey, if we keep quiet then he'l__l go to sleep soon. Don't cry sweetheart. I'm OK; I promise I'll never leave you. _This was generally a statement regularly whispered to him whilst she had a bruise to her temple or a blackened eye. Sometimes a busted lip. Once a broken arm.

Usually mom hid under his bed with him too; in fact, they had a whole bunch of hidey-holes in their house, but today he was alone in playing the game. He guessed it was something to do with the note on the mantle.

He was still hungry, starving actually. It was his stomach rumbling that gave his hiding place away.

With terrible fury, his father had grabbed him and yanked him into the centre of the room.

"What is it? Where's mom?" he'd pleaded, cowering under his father's menacing glare.

"Your _whore_ of a mother has left us," he'd spat, "and she's never coming back."

"Mom always promised she wouldn't leave me. She loves me..."

"Quit your whining, boy!"

The first slap stunned him into silence, knocked him to the ground. "Dad I…"

"Shut up! It's your fault she's gone!" Strong hands punched a stomach already swollen with hunger, legs kicked out at him, bruising him, marking his pre-pubescent body. Curling up into a ball on the threadbare carpet and covering his head, trying in vain to protect himself, his sobs were drowned out by the sound of the slaps, his father's unrelenting fury and callous taunts.

_You're nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing.__ You always were and you always will be. I know it and your mother knew it too._

The memories from that night still haunted him even now. More than twenty five years later, even the scent of alcohol was enough to transport him right back to the way he'd been back then. Just a lonely kid, wondering why he'd suddenly become his father's punch-bag and feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt that whatever bad thing he'd done, he had driven his mother away from them.

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**You like?** **Let me know if you think this is too much.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Powerless**

**A/N: Glad people liked the last chapter. This one is kind of inspired by the Dave Pelzer books, which is the sort of situation I can imagine someone like Mike Doyle coming from. Mentions of Nadia in this chapter and his feelings for her. She'll be making an appearance soon. Hope you like it.**

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He was old enough _now _of course, to know that it hadn't really been his fault that his mom had left. His father had been one sick bastard though- with his unrelenting mind games, the continuous beatings…

But up until he had been about fourteen, his dad had had him believing that it had been something _he'd _done that had made his mom walk out on them. Mike always wondered what, used to cry himself to sleep at night worrying about it, get headaches because he was always thinking so hard, casting his mind back to that day, until it was just a jumble of muddled memories, and he was never certain any more of what was fact or fiction.

In that time, with all the confusion, suffering and misery, Mike's spirit had been broken.

He'd never exactly been a confident kid, preferring to stay in the background rather than be upfront and pushy about things, but he'd always had an opinion and he'd always been smart. A straight-A student in fact. In school, his teachers noticed that he tried to sink into the background more and that his schoolwork was suffering. He made careless mistakes especially in math, which was his strongest subject, and he tried his best to get out of gym class, which he'd always loved before.

Even in summer, when it was boiling hot, he always wore sweaters, his skin was pale, and he always looked tired and unhappy. Teachers knew that his mom had left the family, had heard whispers in the playground, but their minds did not associate that anything else could be wrong with the kid, other than him being a child coming from a broken home. Hell, they were ten a penny these days, why was _this_ kid taking it so badly?

Whenever Mike was pressed on the issue and concerns were raised by one homeroom teacher or another, the answer was always the same. A whispered: _I'm fine_. It grew into a mantra so repeated by him that people who heard it believed it, despite all the glaring evidence to the contrary.

He began to back off from his friends, embarrassed at what was going on at home and not wanting people to find out what he was going through, that in the end, he had no friends left at all.

It was the way he preferred it. Despite everything, he still loved his dad, and was just waiting for those days to come when he didn't have a drink. Mike lived in hope for a day when he came home after school, and would find a TV dinner on the table, and he and his dad would sit and watch a movie in almost companiable silence, instead of the fists pulling him from his bed at 3:00am and slapping him around the stomach and arms (where the bruises remained well hidden).

It was those days that were the worst and the most common. The days when Rob Doyle staggered in from the bar, reeking of booze and just wanting to take it all out on someone. The only person he had left in his life to take it out on was his son.

When he was older, Mike started fighting back, but to no avail. His dad, ex-military, had always ruled the household with an iron fist, and some young pre-teen was no match for sixteen stone of solid muscle.

Mike grew to fear for his life, constantly walking on egg-shells. He was pretty sure that if he didn't get out soon, one day he'd never regain consciousness after one his father's onslaughts.

At twelve, he got himself a paper round, and the constant hunger dissipated somewhat, as he was finally able to afford his own lunch at school. Not everyday, but a couple of times a week he could afford a hot meal. It made all the difference, and spurred on by this secret triumph, and the knowledge that he was no longer starving and gaining some dignity back from his abusive father, he started mowing lawns and cleaning cars throughout the summer, just so he could buy new shirts and pants for school.

At thirteen, Michael Doyle was completely self-sufficient. He let his jack-ass father spend _his_ money on the booze, the horses, and less frequently, the rent. Mike lost count of the amount of times he had to plead to their asshole landlord not to kick them out into the street. He cleaned the house, he washed his clothes, made paltry meals with whatever he managed to buy reduced from the store, the whole while determined that when he was old enough, he would get the hell out of there and make certain that no one would ever make him feel so powerless again.

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Nadia Yassir made him feel powerless.

The first time he'd clapped eyes on her at CTU LA, he'd been blown away by her and the feelings that suddenly hit him. The petite, feisty woman had been barking orders at someone when he'd first entered the building that fateful day two years ago, completely in control of herself, unfazed by whatever the hell else was going on around her. His eyes had been drawn to her right away, despite everyone else standing in the room- unsure of what it was about her that captured his attention so avidly.

She was beautiful, sure, but it was more than that. She was strong, assured. _Feeling._

Unlike him.

Her brown eyes had met with his briefly and he was pretty certain that he'd been a goner from that point on.

He didn't like the emotions her eyes elicited from him. The way that when she spoke, something in his heart jumped at her slightest word. The way his eyes were automatically drawn to her mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss her. Back on edge, he tried hard to get a hold of himself. He wasn't a kid anymore, he was a CTU agent, damn it.

Then he sensed that she and Milo had some kind of _thing_ going. Jealousy had gripped him in waves, but he'd bit it back. Then he found out that she might possibly be a mole, working with a terrorist cell.

His heart had refused to believe it, even as the facts had been presented to his logical mind. Despite protestations from those who knew her that she could never be a traitor, he did what he always did: took care of business.

As he interrogated her so harshly, he saw the fear in her eyes, hating himself for doing it to her. For making her so afraid. He realised a psychologist would _love _to get inside his mind, knew the logical theory for him working in Field Ops was some kind of repressed anger against what his father had done to him, and his way of gaining back some self control and power over others. The psychologists would be right.

Mike didn't enjoy his job too much, especially at times like this. But it was all he had.

As he'd gripped her throat, she'd hurled insults at him, even as she'd been frightened and his eyes had bore into hers, she'd maintained her innocence. Defiant.

Afterward, apologies didn't seem adequate for what he'd done to her. Nothing could ever demonstrate that he was sorry enough for the way he'd made her feel. Mike had made his mind up right then and there, that after this whole sorry mess was over and done with, he'd quit. Get the hell out of CTU. He didn't know where he'd go, or what he'd do, but he knew one thing for sure: he couldn't carry on the way he was. He was on self-destruct, and the knowledge that he was partly to blame for the way he was feeling, made him feel more powerless than anything.

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	4. Chapter 4

**You never know what you have until it's gone**

**A/N: Reflections after the accident. And a visitor. Nope, not who you're hoping for. Sorry. Wanted to keep them apart for a little bit longer. I like the tension!!!**

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He'd been injured, pretty badly that night. The doctors had told him right off the bat that they weren't sure whether or not they'd be able to save his sight.

Mike Doyle had fallen so low that day that at that point he didn't even care whether he lived or died, let alone whether or not he never _saw _anything again.

CTU had been compromised hours earlier- Milo had been killed. Milo Pressman, who'd had such an issue with him back in Denver, yet who seemed to mean so much to Nadia. He'd seen her right after it had happened- the devastation evident in her face.

She'd wanted to break down, he realised, but she hadn't, biting back her tears and shaking instead. Mike had looked at her and reflected that if it had been _him_ lying there with a bullet wound in his forehead, he was pretty sure no one would give a damn. He'd asked her if she was OK, such a lame question; she'd said no, face a mask of guilt and sadness. He wanted to hold her, comfort her. He knew she wouldn't let him.

Milo had given his _life _for Nadia, because he loved her. Mike was pretty sure she loved him back. Probably still did, even to this day.

He'd left on another Field Ops mission, been injured when all along at the back of his mind, he'd known Philip Bauer had no indication of doing the right thing. Then he'd wound up in hospital, severe burns and scarring to his eyes.

His career at CTU was over, and all of a sudden he regretted his thoughts of leaving earlier that day. He might not have anybody to love him or even care that he'd been hurt, but this job had been pretty much all that had kept him going the last eleven years. You never quite knew what you had, until it was gone.

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The first couple of days in hospital, Mike was doped up on so many painkillers that he didn't know where he was. He couldn't remember what had happened, but he knew he couldn't see anything. His eyes were all bandaged up and he gradually remembered the reason why, panic choking him. Visions came back to him, in fits and starts, intermingled with long-repressed memories of his childhood, and with them the terrible notion that he would probably be blinded for life.

He had no visitors, he thought bitterly, in his most lucid moments. Not exactly surprising, since he'd not exactly gone out of his way to make friends at LA, or Denver. If he'd _had_ visitors, they would have been out of pity, and that was the last thing he wanted. He didn't want or need anyone's sympathy.

He lay silently in the bed, fists clenching the sheets as he slid in and out of uncomfortable sleep, which seemed to elude him at the times when he most wanted it. Sometimes he wanted to cry, but he never did.

He had learned long ago that crying didn't make things any better. Never had. Never would.

Then, on the sixth day, he had a visitor.

Bill Buchanan had hovered outside the room, a little wary as to whether he should go in or not. He didn't like the patient in the bed any more than most people at CTU did, but he felt for what he had gone through. For what he was still going through. He knew from what the doctors had told him that Mike was undergoing a pretty complicated operation in the next week or so, to try and repair the damage to his corneas that was probably _irreparable_.

A long shot but worth it just to give the guy some kind of dignity back. CTU was picking up the tab. A top eye surgeon was flying in from Washington DC, but doctors were uncertain as to how successful it would be. According to them, Mike Doyle just didn't seem to give a damn either way.

Even the nurses avoided him now, not because he yelled at them or anything, but because he just didn't speak. He didn't eat either. Only getting up when he had to go to the bathroom or shower, and even then refusing any help from anybody, no matter how long it took him to complete the task, or how many things he bumped into. He was like stone. An impenetrable fortress. Silent and brooding, even the janitor kept well out of the way of "the blond guy in room 14."

With a reluctant sigh, Bill pushed open the door. "Agent Doyle?"

Doyle turned a bandaged face to the sound of the voice. "Who is it?"

"It's Bill Buchanan."

"Oh." Startled. "How are you sir?" Respectful. Even in this state.

Bill surprised a smile, "It's just "_Bill_" for now, Agent Doyle. I've resigned from CTU."

"Resigned?"

"Yes."

"How come?"

"A lot of reasons. The main one being I didn't like the office politics from higher up the chain of command…" his voice was gruff at the mention of 'politics' but Doyle didn't comment. Was silent for a moment, just reflecting.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Bill. CTU will miss you."

There was the sound of him sitting in the bedside chair. "CTU misses you, too, Agent Doyle. You made a pretty big impact there. How are you doing?"

A shrug. Bill sensed the tension in his body. "I'm OK I guess."

"The doctor told me about your operation next week. That sounds pretty big news."

"I guess. I'm not too hopeful either way."

Frustration welled in Bill at Doyle's deliberate evasiveness. The one thing that made him such a good agent and interrogator was now really pissing the older man off.

As if Doyle sensed it, he spoke: "Cut to the chase, Bill."

"Excuse me?"

"Why are you _really_ here?"

Bill hid a smile. "I came by on behalf of CTU."

"You don't work for them any more."

"Well, call it a favour on behalf of a friend," Bill's voice was curt. "For some reason, _Nadia_ wanted to know how you were doing."

Doyle's mouth first opened in bewilderment. "What?" Then his mouth grew a little bitter; "didn't she want to come here and ask me that herself?"

"_I_ advised her not to," Bill stood up, a little icily, "given the circumstances and what she's been through lately, a guilt trip at your condition is probably the last thing she needs." He opened the door; "I hope your operation goes OK, Agent Doyle."

"It's just '_Doyle'_ now. I've resigned from CTU too. Or I guess I will be soon." A little sadly he echoed his visitor's own earlier words but Bill noticed his mouth was trembling a little.

Bill frowned.

"Bill—wait!"

"Yes, Agent Doyle?"

"I—is she OK? Nadia I mean."

A smile from Bill at last, even though he knew Mike couldn't see it. "No. But I think she will be. Eventually. I think you both will."

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**Reviews make me write faster…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Resignation**

**A/N****: I know the aftermath of the operation isn't exactly accurate and I doubt things would happen that quickly if someone managed by some miracle, to regain their sight back after such a trauma, but for fictional purposes, and because it makes my story a little bit easier, so be it. I'm ****not**** a doctor! Please don't flame me! I just couldn't bear him to be blinded for life… Anyway, was feeling really inspired so managed to edit and put up three more chapters, and yes, Nadia and Doyle ****do**** finally meet up again after so long. I couldn't bear to keep them apart any longer!!**

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He didn't remember too much about the lead up to the operation. For the week or so beforehand, all he'd been focusing on was Bill's visit and the fact that Nadia had expressed some degree of concern over his well-being.

He hated the way his stomach leapt a little at the thought that she might actually care to some degree how he was, but then just as quickly his thoughts bitterly dispelled when he remembered his brutal treatment of her. It was nothing.

After what he'd done to her, why should it even matter to her how he was doing? She was asking after a colleague's welfare, just to be polite.

It stung, but he accepted it.

As he was being anesthetised, he tried to recall her pretty face in his mind, and realised with fear, he couldn't. Even his _memories_ were being taken from him now, along with his sight. He wished, as the medicine finally kicked in, and he went under, that he could just see her face for one last time, just to tell her how sorry he was, for the way he'd made her so afraid.

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"How is he?"

"We're just waiting for the anaesthetic to wear off, and then we'll know for sure if the operation has been a success."

"Are you hopeful?"

"He seemed to respond well to sensation and light when he started coming round earlier, but we won't know fully until he wakes up and he becomes coherent."

The words were jumbled in the back of Doyle's head. It felt like he was swimming through fog. His head ached. Nothing made any real sense to him.

"Mr Doyle, this is Doctor Walker. Can you hear me?"

A nod, more pain. Sparks attacked his face, the alien sensation of cool air on his skin. The bandages were off.

"Mr Doyle, you've just gotten out of surgery. Do you remember where you are?"

"Yes..." muffled. The burning sensation overpowering in his eye sockets as he became more alert. Remembering. He was scared to open his eyes.

So scared.

"Agent Doyle, its Bill Buchanan. I came by to see how you were."

He nodded, jaw clenched in pain.

"Are you OK Agent Doyle? Can I get you anything?"

"Hurts…" Doyle managed, weakly, his eyes tightly scrunched shut in agony.

"The anaesthetic is wearing off, Mr Doyle," the doctors reassuring voice again, "we're hooking you up to a drip in a little while."

"Now, please…"

"Mr Doyle, I need you to open your eyes for me first. We need to see if the surgery has made any impact on your eyesight at all."

"Agent Doyle?" Bill's voice was concerned.

With effort, for the fading anaesthetic was still making his eyelids heavy, Doyle drowsily forced open his eyes. The first sensation that hit him was white light. Bright white. Then it was blurry.

Doyle squinted at this new colour, unfamiliar with it after the blackness of the past couple of weeks. Gradually, shapes came into focus. Dark shapes hovering over him.

He blinked a little.

"Mr Doyle? Can you see anything?"

"White---" Doyle managed, "blurry shapes---" before sleep finally overtook him and he drifted into a peaceful sleep, a relieved expression tugging at his lips.

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Once his dad attacked him and broke three of his ribs.

He'd been twelve at the time. It was the first time he'd ever broken a bone.

But not the last.

The day was still crystal clear in his mind even now.

He remembered that it had been summer. The hottest summer to hit LA in a while. Practically a heat wave. Most of the kids in the neighbourhood had gone away to summer camp or at least day camp where they got to play sports like soccer and basketball and build rafts out of branches. It wasn't the sort of place he really wanted to go, large groups of people tended to make him kind of nervous now, but it sure would have been nice to have had a vacation away from his dad. Instead, he upped his paper route so that he managed to earn a little more money.

More money meant a little more food and a lot more freedom.

Most mornings he was up early, before his dad even managed to drag himself out to the construction site. He did the route on foot- his dad had pawned his bike a couple of months earlier so he could have a night at the dog-track, but it didn't matter. Mike was just glad to be out of the house and in the fresh air. No matter how many times he washed the floor or vacuumed, their house always had kind of a stale smell to it.

After the paper route, he tended to head to the local park or something and read comic books, occasionally he headed to the library. He was big into reading that summer; found that stories about other people's exciting adventures tended to detract him from his own unhappiness. Sometimes he just sat opposite the public swimming pool and watched happy families going in and out, a little jealous as they all wore such big smiles on their faces.

Once he took a bus to the beach, but he didn't stay there too long. The crowds got to him, and aside from sitting and baking in the sun, and melting under his thin sweater, he was kind of bored. He had a hot dog though, and it tasted pretty good. He remembered that was the best thing he'd eaten in months. He'd thought about having another one as he had enough money safely tucked into his jeans pocket, but was pretty sure his stomach, unused to such stodgy food, wouldn't be able to handle all the grease and he didn't want to get sick.

It was after the day at the beach when his dad got even more violent than usual.

He'd been sat on the weathered porch, feeling pretty positive that he'd have a couple more hours respite from his dad, who'd been working shifts. He'd eaten a couple of pieces of fruit for dinner and drank his usual beverage of tap water, and was just staring into space, thinking. He tended to do that a lot now, he guessed it was because he was so tired most of the time, or maybe because he was hungry a lot, and sometimes he found his mind wandering at the most inopportune moments. That night he'd been thinking about the World Series, he could remember it now. As he'd sat, looking off into space, face warmed by the fading sunlight and smelling next doors barbecue enviously, his reverie had been rudely interrupted by the sight of his father staggering up the driveway towards him.

He could tell right off that he was drunk- not just _drunk._ Was there a degree _higher_ than drunkenness? Whatever it was, he was pretty sure his dad was there. He reeked of beer and cigarette smoke and there was some kind of stain down the front of his work shirt that Mike was pretty sure was vomit.

Mike was surprised to see him, and afraid at the disorientated look in his eyes. He made to move off the porch, but wasn't quick enough. For someone so out of it, his dad sure was fast when he wanted to be.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Rob slurred, pushing him up the steps. "Get in the goddamn house and clean, boy!"

"The house is tidy," Mike practically whispered, trying to twist away from him, even though he knew it was no good struggling. "I vacuumed, and washed the windows and cleaned the stove..."

"Are you trying to placate me, boy?"

Mike wasn't sure what that meant. "N…no sir," he stuttered, uncertainly.

He was pushed forward into the living room, so hard that he banged his head on the doorframe. He slumped on the floor, a little dazed, seeing stars.

"I got fired today," his father informed him, a murderous look in his eye as he pulled off his jacket, towering above him. "Want to know why?"

Heart sinking, Mike shook his head, scurrying back a little from him on the carpet.

"Because I was late to the site. Want to know _why _I was late?"

"W…why sir?"

"Because my punk son forgot to wake me before he left the house!" anger fully unleashed, Rob whacked Mike hard on the side of his face, so forcefully that his head snapped back in agony.

This was new territory for Mike. Usually when he took a beating, his dad was careful to do it in the places where the bruises wouldn't show to the outside world. Today though, he just didn't seem to care. He'd lost it.

"I---I woke you this morning," Mike stammered, to no avail, feeling his knees shake in terror; "before I left for my paper route."

"Do _not_ disrespect or lie to me, boy!" Rob hissed, spittle coming out of his mouth, "you need to learn some manners! You're _nothing_ to me. _Nothing_!" With those words, he aimed a vicious kick at his son's abdomen.

Mike cried out in pain. He'd gotten pretty good at not making a sound whenever he took a beating, had grown kind of used to them infact, but the second that size eleven foot contacted with his chest, he felt the air leave his body in fright. The crunching noise was sickening, and with the sharp pain that followed, he felt vomit rise in his throat. He knew instantly that something had been broken and only half conscious and nauseous with the stinging tenderness around his rib cage; all he could do was lie there and accept the rest of the beating.

Afterward, his father slumped into his chair, can of beer in his hand and watched some crappy game-show. Seconds later he was snoring, the tinny sound of the television doing nothing to mask his snores.

Mike shuffled to his room on his knees, clutching his side as the unbearable pain engulfed him. He barred his door shut with the rickety wooden desk chair he usually stood his books on. He knew it wouldn't keep his dad out, but he felt that it offered him some kind of protection momentarily. He slowly peeled off his sweater, trying hard not to cry out as he raised his arms.

The image that stared back at him from the mirror above his bed was that of a broken child. Forever damaged at the hands of someone who was supposed to love and protect him.

Mike's white face was marred by angry red bruises, already changing to purple, and his nose was bleeding profusely, the red trickle a stark contrast to his pale face. Experimentally, he pressed his hand to his sternum, groaning quietly when he felt how tender the skin was. He wondered how many ribs had been broken.

It was the condition of his stomach that bothered him the most though, for clearly visible on his skin was several indentations of a boot print. Size eleven. Even worse than all of the bruising and the pain, was the knowledge that he knew that from this point on, things would only get much worse.

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"Mr Doyle…" he felt the insistent pressure on his arm and groaned a little, as he was rudely awakened from his dream, or rather nightmare. "Mr Doyle, it's Doctor Walker.. I've came by to check on you. Do you think you can open your eyes for me?"

"_Again?_" Doyle asked wryly, opening his eyes with a resigned sigh. As he fully focused on the surgeon hovering above him, he pulled a face, "man, doc... that is one LOUD tie."

"I'm glad you approve," the doctor responded with a small smile. "How are you feeling today, Mr Doyle?"

"A little headachy, but a lot better," he said simply, sitting upright. "Any chance I can get the hell out of here sometime soon?"

"In the next couple of days you can go home," the surgeon told him with a smile, "we just want to monitor you for a little longer and ensure that the blurriness and headaches you have are nothing to worry about."

So, he'd gotten his sight back. Not fully functional, and he had blind spots and partial blurred vision on occasion, but at least he could see again, albeit nowhere near as well as he'd used to. The relief that he'd felt upon discovering he could see what was in front of him again had been overwhelming. He hadn't known how much he missed having all of his five senses intact until one of them had been taken away from him. He felt so lucky to have escaped from the dark world that had consumed him for so many weeks.

The doctor checked out his responses, shining a pen torch in his eye for the umpteenth time, as Doyle followed his instructions patiently. When the surgeon had left, he sat back in the bed, his eyes drifting to the envelope propped up on the bedside table next to him.

His letter of resignation.

He'd penned it pretty much the second he figured he could see well enough to stay inside the lines.

He'd known right away that even if he was fortunate enough to get his sight back, he'd never be able to go back to heading up Field Ops. His eyesight would never be what it was, and he knew he'd probably never be capable of firing a gun again and making a clean shot. He would no longer be an asset to CTU, merely a hindrance. He wasn't a stupid man, prepared to put other people in danger to try and salvage some kind of pride.

His expression was sad as he lay back down in bed, rubbing his eyes. They occasionally itched, and the noticeable scarring around them bothered him more than it probably should. By no means a vain man, nor even conscious as to how he had looked in the past, Doyle was now aware that the marks around his eyes singled him out as being some kind of victim, having undergone some kind of accident, and it was a feeling he hated.

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"Mail for you, Miss Yassir."

With a preoccupied nod, Nadia cast a smile at the member of IT who had brought up her mail, then frowned as her attention was turned to the person on the other end of the receiver. "Look, I don't care _what _she says. I need the schematics for that building, and I need them sending over to Chloe O'Brien _now_! Yeah, you tell her that…"

With a sigh, Nadia rubbed the bridge of her nose tiredly as she sank into her chair, stifling a groan as she hung up the phone in annoyance. Running CTU was a lot harder than she'd ever dreamed it would be. Bill Buchanan had made it look a lot easier than it actually was.

She'd taken over full directorship of CTU only a couple of weeks previously, having initially turned down the post, refusing the offer numerous times. Her mind and heart had still been full of the guilt and regret of a couple of months earlier, when CTU had been compromised under _her _watch. Nadia still had nightmares about that day. She'd felt that there would be no way she could do justice to the job, not after so many people had been hurt or even killed due to stupid mistakes she felt she'd made.

It was Buchanan who'd talked her round. Now that she'd finally gotten her teeth into her duties, she was feeling a little better, but she still felt that everywhere she went in the building, she was surrounded by ghosts, and it was a feeling that unnerved her.

She opened a couple of envelopes, dismissing the junk with a frown as it went sailing into her waist basket. The handwritten envelope stilled her momentarily- merely addressed to "Director of CTU." Curiously, she sliced it open with her fingernail.

The letter inside was brief, professional and to the point. Mike Doyle had decided to resign his post as Head of Field Ops, for "personal reasons." He would not be returning to CTU. Please forward on any personal effects… yadda, yadda, yadda.

Nadia's eyes were a little perturbed as she studied the note. She knew that he could see again now, though not nearly as well as before. Bill had kept her regularly updated on his progress. She'd assumed that when he was feeling up to it, he would head back to CTU in some capacity, one yet to be discussed by those at Division, but resignation from him was the one thing she _hadn't _expected.

Biting her lip, Nadia tried to suppress the feelings of guilt that welled up in her as she studied the letter, the neatly printed words bothering her more than she'd cared to admit.

Mike Doyle had almost been another casualty because of her. No matter how many times people had tried to assure her that she'd been following the proper protocol that dreaded day, he'd been temporarily blinded because of her. Because she'd sent him to pick up that stupid component! He could have been blinded for good. And it all would have been her fault.

Taking a deep breath, Nadia reached over to her phone and dialled an external number, her chocolate brown eyes a confused melting pot of emotions.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Back to normality**

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He ran away once. He'd hitched a ride from the centre of town with some trucker and had headed east. He didn't know where he'd been going to, but all he knew was that he had to get the hell away from his father before he wound up dead. He didn't get far. His dad called the cops on him and they found him at a service station forty miles away. His sorry ass had been dragged back so fast that his feet had barely touched the ground. That night back at home, he had had his arm broken. Mike had known then that the only way out of the situation would be if one of them died. He wanted so badly for it to be him.

He wasn't sure what had made him think of that day, as he sat in the hospital room now, idly flicking through a car magazine but not focusing on the chunks of text or even seeing the pictures. All he knew was that lately, he'd been assuaged by bad memories. Too much time to just sit and do nothing but think, he supposed.

The nurse came into the room then with a fresh water jug for him, and handed him an envelope. "Mail for you, Mr Doyle."

"Thanks," curiously, Mike waited till she'd left, and tore it open, his eyes registering the CTU letter-headed paper in puzzlement. His eyes scanned over the first couple of sentences, expression quickly changing from one of confusion to one of anger.

_I feel that I cannot accept your resignation as you have proven to be a highly valued member of staff and that your reasons for resignation are invalid. I feel that your extensive expertise can be utilised in other areas of CTU. When you are feeling up to it, I would appreciate it if you would contact me and we could arrange to discuss this matter further._

Seething, Doyle threw down the note in disgust. _Other areas of CTU?_ Like what? Janitorial staff? He was livid. Beyond livid. This was a joke. Was nobody listening to him anymore?

With a frown, his eyes drifted to the signatory on the bottom of the letter, as he snatched it back up again in astonishment. It was signed off: _Nadia Yassir- Director of CTU._

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Doyle was discharged the next day, but he was too mad to even be thrilled to be out of the sterile hospital environment. The letter ignoring his resignation had pissed him off pretty badly, and what was even worse was that everyone he'd managed to get a hold of at Division had seemed to agree with Nadia. It seemed she'd gone above her head with her counter-argument, probably anticipating his angered response to her letter.

He'd used the payphone out in the hospital corridor to call some of the contacts he knew there, and their responses had been practically the same: _Agent Doyle, you're damn good at what you do. It would be prudent to merely resign your post if Miss Yassir can find another place for you within the unit._

Sat in the cab on the way back to his place, he was looking out of the window keenly, his eyes focusing on the everyday things he'd taken so much for granted, things he'd never thought he would see ever again. Blue sky, palm fronds waving in the gentle breeze on people's front lawns…

The ground floor apartment he rented was small but spacious enough for one person, and he reflected that as he pushed open the door, he _was_ glad to be home. The avalanche of mail piled up inside his doorway indicated that he was back to reality, if the everyday junk mailers, gas bills and yard sale notices were anything to go by. Mike dumped his small holdall on the floor and sat down on his sofa with a relieved sigh.

Back to normality, whatever the hell _that_ was supposed to mean now.

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**Sorry this is a pretty short chapter- have hopefully made up for it with the next one, with some Doyle and Nadia interaction! As a matter of interest: ****I'm wondering if I'm getting the tone of the story right, with the Americanisms and everything, with me being British! If anyone notices any serious mistakes, please let me know so I can correct them. I'm trying to keep it flowing as smoothly as possible.  
Thank you x**


	7. Chapter 7

**Face to face**

**A/N****: Nadia and Doyle finally meet up face to face after so much time apart. I've been looking forward to posting this chapter as it's my favourite one I've written so far. It's also a slightly longer one. Hope you like it! Please tell me if you think they're a little OOC. Didn't know how they'd be around each other in this kind of situation and didn't really feel it would be a 'hearts and flowers' type reunion either.**

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Almost two weeks after getting out of the hospital, Doyle was slowly readjusting and getting himself back to normal. Well, as normal as he figured he could be, given the circumstances. His days were spent either walking the neighbourhood- as he didn't want to venture too far in case his vision went blurry- or reading a book in his back garden. He also felt pretty self conscious of the scars around his eyes and was convinced that people were staring at him if he went outside too much.

He'd had no contact with anyone, save for the occasional phone call from his surgeon checking up on him, _peace at last _and that was the way he wanted it to be. His answer-machine was switched on permanently now, and to his relief he'd had no more contact with anyone from CTU or Division. He was due a check-up at the hospital again in a couple of weeks, but until then, was pretty happy doing nothing, aside from thinking about what maybe he should do next.

He guessed he could give notice on the apartment and leave LA. Maybe just travel around for a while. See the world. He'd always wanted to go travelling, and him being blinded had been kind of the impetus he needed to maybe try and do something more with his life. He had plenty of savings stashed away, why the hell not?

He was checking out flights to Europe on the internet one Tuesday afternoon when there was a knock at his door. Not a polite knocking either, insistent. Urgent.

"Jeez," Doyle muttered, reluctantly abandoning his computer and heading down the hall; "if that's another door to door salesman I'll---"

Knock Knock!

"Alright, alright already..." he yelled impatiently, yanking the door open, "For Christ's sake…."

The words died on his lips. Nadia Yassir was stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, and she definitely didn't look too happy to see him.

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He looked better than she'd figured he would, Nadia thought, her eyes running over his shocked face. A little thinner maybe, and pretty pale. The scarring around his eyes was evident, but not as bad as she'd expected it to be, and his hair was a little long in back and in need of a good cut- but other than that he looked… good. Better than good. She was unprepared for the way her stomach gave a little flutter as her eyes met his.

"Hi," she greeted him sardonically, arching an eyebrow. "Mind if I come in?"

Without waiting for an answer, she pushed right past him and into his hallway.

"What the…?"

She headed straight for his answering machine, which was flashing intermittently on the hall table, the red light indicating people had clearly been trying to get hold of him; she jabbed viciously at the play button and turned to face him, crossing her arms. "Don't you ever check your messages?"

"You have thirteen new messages…" the recorded voice intoned dully.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Doyle snapped, ignoring her question, but she didn't miss the guilty look in his eyes: a sure sign of avoiding the issue. "What makes you think you have the right to barge right into my apartment and start dictating to me?"

"Last time I checked, I was still your boss."

"Not through lack of trying on my part," he muttered bitterly, raking a hand through his blond hair, irritated at the sudden invasion into his home, and more disturbed than he could admit, to be seeing Nadia Yassir again after so long. Damn it, those feelings he got whenever he looked at her had resurfaced instantly. Yup, he still wanted to kiss her.

She looked good, he admitted inwardly, but he was so angry at her appearing like this, that his hospital resolution of further apologising to her for his treatment of her during her interrogation went right out the window. Ten seconds in her presence and already she'd made him so mad he couldn't see straight. No pun intended.

First new message, received 3rd May, 1:30pm: Beep!

_"Um, Hi Mike, it's Nadia. Nadia Yassir. I heard you were released from hospital a couple of days ago and was just checking in to see how you are, and how you feel about the whole work situation. Division told me you got my letter, so please call me. You know the number. OK, bye…"_

2nd new message, received 5th May, 5:40pm: Beep!

"_Mike, this is Nadia. __Hope you got my other message. Please call me about the work situation. We need to organise some kind of meeting either here or at Division. OK, bye."_

And so on. Seven more messages from her went by, all in the same vein. He guessed they were probably _all _from her and cursed himself inwardly for not just tossing the machine right out the window when he'd got back from the hospital. As each message was played in the confines of his narrow hallway, he could see her getting visibly more and more annoyed. She tapped her foot ominously, her eyes never leaving his face.

"Enough already," he finally snapped impatiently, yanking the plug from the machine right out of the socket. "Jeez… I'm pretty sure that stalking _is_ still a felony in LA..." He was gratified to see the small blush creeping over her face as he strode into his living room and sat down on his sofa.

She followed him and sat down primly on his easy chair. "How've you been?" she asked carefully, her eyes taking in his apartment. It was small but comfortable looking and he kept it pretty neat, but aside from the books on the shelf and a couple of generic prints on the wall, didn't reveal too much about his personality. She wondered if that was deliberate on his part.

"I've been fine," he growled, "or at least I _was_, till you showed up."

She didn't look offended, more like she'd been expecting some kind of insult from him. The expression on her face was resigned as she placed her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers a little awkwardly. He noticed she bit her nails. He wondered whether to offer her something to drink.

"You didn't call to arrange a meeting," she supplied after a couple of moments.

"What does that tell you?" he asked, sarcastically. Scratch that offer of a drink.

"It tells me that _you're_ trying to play the martyr," she retorted icily, her eyes unflinching as she surveyed him.

His head jerked up, eyes flashing with anger. "_Excuse_ me?"

"You heard me. What exactly is your goddamn problem about returning to CTU? You figure that just because you can't do your old job, nothing else would be _good _enough for you, is that it?"

He opened his mouth to interrupt, but she cut him off.

"I don't want to hear it, Agent Doyle. I'm sorry for what happened to you, but if you're willing to throw away everything you've worked for over the years, then I guess you aren't the person I thought you were."

His eyes were hard as she finished her tirade. "You done dressing me down now, _boss_?" he drawled, his sarcastic undertones not lost on Nadia.

"That depends on whether or not you heard a word of what I just said."

"_Newsflash_ Nadia!" he burst out impatiently, slamming his fist into the arm of the sofa so hard that she jumped, "I _still_ have blurred vision. Usually when I get stressed, kind of like you're making me now. I get dizzy spells and blind spots, and the worst kind of headaches. I don't think I could fire at a target now if my life depended on it. What use would I be to a government agency like CTU in this condition?"

"We could use you in Comms," she stated simply.

He stared at her for a couple of seconds, blankly. "Comms?" he finally repeated, surprised.

"As in, alongside Morris O'Brien," Nadia supplied, watching him. He didn't look entirely devastated by the proposal, but she couldn't really decipher the expression on his face. His eyes were hooded as he gazed off into space somewhere.

"What about Chloe?" he asked after a couple of seconds, looking a little confused.

"Oh—that's right, you won't know. Chloe's pregnant. She'll be heading off on maternity leave in another couple of months."

"Oh." He sounded surprised.

"Seriously Mike, it could be a good opportunity for you," Nadia said firmly, as she stood up, knowing there wasn't a lot else she could say. "I'll give you some time to think about it, but I'll expect an answer by the end of the week."

He bit his lip as she grabbed her bag and headed towards his front door. "Why?"

"Excuse me?" she turned to face him.

"Why won't you accept my resignation? Why did you bother coming all the way over here and telling me this face to face?"

"Because it would be a waste for you to leave CTU and I wanted to make you realise that," she told him bluntly. "But if you really want to go, then I guess I can't stop you."

"I don't want to be pitied Nadia." His voice held a trace of anger, even as his eyes remained calm; "or given a job just for the sake of it, because of some misguided sense of guilt."

"I beg your pardon?" her voice faltered slightly.

"Bill told me you were feeling guilty about things," he told her clearly, some of his anger vanishing at the startled expression on her face. "But that day wasn't your fault Nadia, any of it."

Perturbed that he'd seemed to read her emotions so well, she merely nodded and turned to leave once more, but then turned back to face him. "I don't _pity_ you Mike," she told him seriously, opening his door, "and I _haven't_ offered you a job out of some kind of guilt at what you're going through, but if you think that's what this is all about, then I guess maybe I _should _start feeling sorry for you."

With those words, she shut the door in his face, as he leaned his face against it with a heavy frown, reflecting on her words and wondering what the hell to do now.

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**What do you guys think?**


	8. Chapter 8

**Making a decision**

**A/N: Doyle makes a decision…**

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Ok, so he had three choices, which was a lot more than most people had- a) bum around Europe for a couple of months and then crawl back to LA with his tale between his legs and beg for the Comms job when he realised there was nothing else he wanted to do and he'd realised he'd made a mistake in turning the job down, b) accept Nadia's offer because he figured that he might be kind of good at it-_swallow his pride_, or c) Just get the hell out of LA and go and live in a cave somewhere and try to forget about her.

As he sat staring blankly at the computer screen, he tried desperately to weigh up the two most feasible options.

Being back at CTU would be hard. Seeing his old Field Ops team heading out in their Kevlar vests every day without him would probably bug him, and he figured that working alongside Morris O'Brien would kind of piss him off. He knew the guy couldn't stand him, due in part to the way he'd thrown his weight around that day months earlier, and presumably also because he'd grabbed him by the throat.

Doyle was more a man of action than words.

He winced as he rubbed his temples. He had a hell of a headache coming on. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Nadia he got them in times of stress, and since she'd made her offer a couple of days earlier, the pain had been worse than ever. He'd even gotten sick a couple of times and bright lights hurt his eyes. No matter how many painkillers he popped, it was ever-present. His surgeon had even bumped up his appointment to the following day instead of week as planned, just so he could be checked out. His eyes became even more blurry as a result of the headaches, sometimes it got so bad that he couldn't sleep.

And when he couldn't sleep, he tended to think. His mind wandered around in circles. At the moment, two thoughts were at the forefront of his mind- Nadia and Nadia. It made a welcome change from thinking about his father anyway.

Having Nadia turn up at his door like that had been a shock. He'd never expected her to go to the trouble of showing up and speaking directly to him, though he figured he shouldn't have been surprised. She was the sort of person who made things happen. The second he'd seen her again, all the repressed thoughts and feelings he'd felt that day back at CTU had welled up inside him, and it troubled him more than he wanted to admit, the kind of effect that she could have on him.

That was another reason why he was hesitant in returning to CTU. She would be his boss. He would have to face her every day, the woman who he'd interrogated so brutally. It still stung him now, her accusations of that fateful day- that he 'got off' on hurting people. Was that really what she thought of him?

He didn't know if he could keep his feelings from her hidden. On one hand, she made him so mad that he was ready to tear his hair out. She was confrontational, demanding, put pressure on people for the results she needed… was he ready for that kind of pressure again so soon?

The other issue was his feelings for her. He didn't know what exactly you would call it, but he _could_ freely admit that he was attracted to her. CTU had a kind of oppressive atmosphere, everyone was so confined, working together in tight little units, that he knew he would be working alongside her pretty closely and he didn't know what to make of the situation.

Unlike Milo, Doyle would never _dream _of acting on his feelings, so that wasn't the issue.

The main issue was that whenever her eyes met his, he tended to lose his trail of thought pretty quickly, as well as the power of capable speech. It wasn't so bad if he wasn't looking at her, so maybe that was the solution: he could take orders by cell phone for the rest of his career.

Damn it, why did this have to be so hard?

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"You're suffering from migraines," Doctor Walker told him the next day, adjusting his natty yellow tie as he studied Doyle's file.

"Migraines?" Doyle repeated with a blink, "I thought they were just headaches."

"They are, of the worst kind," the doctor told him. "A neurological disorder. They're the reason why you've been getting sick and why your eyes seem even more hyper-sensitive than they should. It's a side effect of the operation and the trauma of what you've been through."

"Figures," Doyle replied wanly. "So, how do I stop them?"

"There's a number of herbal and nutritional supplements we can try," the doctor suggested, "physical therapy would be another option. However, as yours seem pretty aggressive, I'd recommend we put you on some kind of medication to reduce the pain."

"What kind of meds?"

"Beta blockers such as propranolol and atenolol are pretty effective in attacking the root causes of migraines, but they _can h_ave some side effects, such as cold hands and feet, tiredness and sleep disturbance, possibly nightmares."

"That's nothing new," Doyle muttered; "what else?"

"In some cases they _have_ been known to cause impotence, dizziness, wheezing, digestive tract problems, skin rashes and dry eyes," the doctor smiled, "but that's only in the rarest cases, Agent Doyle. You're fit and healthy, I'm pretty sure you'll be fine."

"Thanks," Doyle said dryly. "So, these migraines, will they prevent me from returning to work?"

"You're considering returning to work? I wasn't aware of that."

Doyle shrugged, trying to act casual. "So, will they? Only I have to let my boss know my decision by tomorrow."

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"Nadia Yassir."

"A call for you Nadia, it's Mike Doyle."

"Thanks Morris, patch him through."

"No problem," as Morris pitched Doyle's call through to Nadia's office, he guessed that the phone call was in relation to Nadia's job offer to him. She'd discussed her proposal with him and Chloe at length. At first Morris had been kind of pissed off about the prospect of working with the guy. Doyle kind of had a tendency to grab people by the throat when he got mad and Morris had been on the receiving end of that anger once himself.

It had been Chloe, surprisingly, who had reminded him that people deserved a second chance, and _he_ should know that more than anyone. Besides, Doyle was familiar with the systems, the procedures; he would be a welcome addition to have on Comms. They could relate his knowledge of the field to scenarios and he would certainly be an asset to them.

Morris had grudgingly agreed, figuring the pregnancy was doing something crazy to his ex-wife's hormones. He would work alongside Doyle, but he sure didn't have to be happy about it, and if Doyle thought he could grab him by the throat _this _time, he'd damn well poke his half-blind eyes out.

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"Mike.."

"Hi," his voice was quiet, reserved. A little cautious.

"You're cutting it pretty close," she observed, doodling on her message pad, "I'd just about given up on getting any kind of answer from you."

"Gee, sorry," his voice was a little dry, "I didn't realize you were counting the deadline down to the exact second."

She ignored the sarcastic comment; "how've you been?"

"I'm OK. Got the sign-off from my surgeon yesterday. I've been getting migraines…"

"Migraines?" her voice was tinged with concern.

"…But he figures that so long as I take the right meds, I should be OK to come back to CTU."

"You don't exactly sound happy about that…"

"I am," he told her quietly, "I mean, if you still want me to come back?"

"I wouldn't have offered you the job if I didn't." She ceased her doodling, sitting up straighter, "so, when do you want to head back here?"

"I have a choice?" he was a little surprised.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I know your eyes won't be fully up to extensive stress right now, and the migraines complicate things a little and I know you can't drive at the moment," her eyes fell on the calendar on her wall, "and when I came by the other day, I couldn't help noticing that you were planning some kind of trip."

"I was considering one," he admitted.

"Some place nice?" she thought back to the photos' she'd seen on his computer screen.

"Europe."

"Well, Chloe isn't due on maternity leave for another six weeks, so how about you head back here on…" she counted the weeks on the calendar, "July 16th?"

"If it's all the same with you, I think I'd rather come back sooner."

"What about your trip?"

"It wasn't set in stone."

"Well, OK," she replied a little hesitantly, not wanting to push him if he wasn't ready. "Two weeks today?"

"That's fine. See you then," his voice faltered slightly, "and Nadia?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks…"

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**Did you really think Doyle would pass up the chance of working with Nadia again? Hope you liked. :o)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Welcome back?**

**A/N: OK, Doyle heads back to CTU. ****Chaos and merriment (not really) ensues. Have tried to make it a little light-hearted in places though. Enter Chloe and Morris! Sorry if any of this seems OOC. Trying to get back on track.**

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The first person Doyle saw when he headed back into the CTU building a couple of weeks later was Chloe, looking surprisingly… round as she munched on a candy bar beside the vending machine. "Agent Doyle," she greeted him, not unkindly but not enthusiastically either, as he made his way from the locker room.

"Hi," he replied, tone matching hers.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, more for something to say really, than out of genuine interest, he knew. Nevertheless, seeing one of his former colleagues had detracted somewhat from his own feelings of nervousness at being back here. He was wound up tighter than a guitar string. He waited for her to stare at his scars, but she didn't appear to notice.

"Better. You?" he said with a shrug.

"Fat," she said grumpily, tossing the candy wrapper in the garbage and pulling out a couple more quarters and hopefully feeding them into the machine, "My ass is the size of Utah… Nadia's waiting in her office to brief you. She said to go on up when you got here."

"Uh.. thanks." As Doyle climbed the stairs, he looked back down at the floor. The building hadn't changed much since the last time he was here. It was pretty quiet today too, he guessed that Field Ops were in training someplace, and felt a pang of envy, which he quickly suppressed as he knocked at the door.

"Come in.."

Nadia was sat at her desk, going over what looked to be some kind of field notes. Her smile was brief as she greeted him. "Welcome back Mike, take a seat."

He sat down opposite her silently, regarding her back in this office environment that clearly suited her so well.

"How are the headaches?" she ventured, setting down her papers and scrutinising him.

"A little better." His face had healed a lot more in the past couple of weeks, and he was looking a little less paler now, too. Still too thin though. Before he had been bordering on muscular, now he was looking kind of lean.

"That's good," she guessed right off that he didn't want to make small talk. He was looking kind of impatient to get back to work, or maybe he was just bored with the conversation, "well, Morris has set you up a system right next to his. He and Chloe will go over the IP protocols with you this morning and debrief you on some of the chatter we're monitoring at the moment. This afternoon I think Chloe needed to show you some of the new satellite repositioning she's working on. She wants you to be fully operational with the programme before she leaves. I guess that's about it at the moment, unless God forbid anything happens in the mean time. Any questions?"

He shook his head mutely.

"Nothing you wanted to talk about or anything bothering you about being back?"

"Nope."

"Well, I guess I'll see you later then."

She watched him depart from the office, a little frustrated with him already. Was it really so hard for the guy to make small talk? She knew he wasn't exactly big on emotions, but _jeez_..

Even so, she'd not expected her heart to speed up a little, the way it had when he'd walked back into her office, and even now her palms felt a little sweaty at her encounter with him. Five minutes in the presence of Mike Doyle and already she felt tense and flustered. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea…

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Morris had been sulking for the past twenty minutes, ever since Doyle had came and sat down at his new workstation. It was pissing Chloe off. Every time Doyle asked something, generally a valid or intelligent question as he found his way around the new programmes and routers, he was answered with either a terse 'yes' or 'no' or a roll of the eyes from her spouse. Morris was behaving like a child, and she wasn't sure that she could cope with two of them.

"Morris, quit being a jerk," she finally snapped as she rubbed her stomach. Man, she was hungry today.

"_I'm_ not the one with the problem, darling," he passed her a bag of M&M's, glaring at Doyle the whole while.

"Look Morris, I'm sorry, OK?" Doyle said simply.

"Do you even know what you're apologising for?"

"Grabbing you by the throat?" he ventured.

"That's a start."

"What else did I do?" Doyle demanded, eyes narrowing.

"You come in here and behave like a complete arsehole," Morris told him bluntly, "throwing your weight around and interrogating people. Pissing everyone off. You might have been the golden boy back in Denver, but it sure won't win you many friends here, mate."

Doyle's eyes clouded over; "I said I was sorry."

"Did you tell Nadia that?"

"Excuse me?" Doyle raised his eyebrows.

"Did you afford Nadia the courtesy of saying you were _sorry_ for the way you treated her?"

"I told her at the time I regretted it."

"Did you mean it?"

Chloe was watching the argumentative comments tossed back and forth as she dug into the bag of sweets. Kind of fascinated by the way the conversation was headed.

"Of _course_ I meant it," Doyle hissed, "anyway, what the hell does any of this have to do with you?"

"Because she's not just our boss, she's our friend, and she's been through a lot lately, and for some reason, despite the way you treated her, she's willing to give you a second chance. I just wanted to make sure that was warranted."

"It is."

"Good."

"Fine."

_"Fine."_ Morris turned back to his station with a petulant expression, and Doyle to his looking mutinous, as Chloe bit back a small smile. Nadia was certainly going to have her hands full with these two.

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Four days later, Doyle had found his way round the systems pretty well for someone with no real Comms or system training, and Chloe was impressed by the way he'd adapted to everything. Even Morris seemed to have dropped the attitude somewhat, sensing that Doyle really was pretty good at what he was doing, though there was still the occasional squabble.

She and Morris were both a little concerned however, by Doyle's headaches. He tried to pass them off as nothing, but from the way he occasionally squinted at the computer screen, despite the wire-rimmed glasses he'd taken to wearing, they guessed his eyes were still troubling him.

Chloe mentioned it to Nadia one morning after the team briefing. Later that day she called Doyle up to her office under the pretext of finding out how he was coping in his new role. Doyle rolled his eyes as he sat opposite her.

"Quit making stuff up, Nadia. I saw Chloe talking to you. Want to tell me why you _really_ brought me up here?"

"Ok," Nadia crossed her arms, not surprised he'd seen right through her flimsy excuse, "they're concerned about your headaches, your eyes. They tell me you sometimes struggle with what's on the monitor. I'm worried you came back here too soon."

"I'm. ..Fine." Doyle hissed through clenched teeth.

"You sure? Because we can't have anyone on the floor that's not up to speed."

"What, am I speaking in tongues or something? I just told you I was _OK_." Irritated at her line of questioning, he crossed his own arms. His defensiveness instantly got her back up.

"Fine. But the second any of this gets too much for you, I need you to take a break, Ok?"

"Right," he said sarcastically. He knew she was just looking out for him, but it bothered him. Made him feel weak that she had seen he wasn't 100.

"Oh.. Mike," she stopped him as he turned to leave. "We finally got your personnel file through from Denver, I need to make sure it's updated. There's no next of kin or person to contact in an emergency on here…" she stopped short at the expression on his face.

"Leave it blank."

"But…"

"I said: _leave it blank_!" he snapped, his eyes stormy as he surveyed her.

"I have to put someone's name," she told him softly, "a parent or something…"

"You can put the frigging President down for all I care," he spat, his eyes meeting hers. She was blown away by the pain and hurt she saw there in that instant, which he quickly tried to mask with his antipathy as he lowered his voice; "there's _no one_, Ok?"

She bit her lip, confused by the emotions that suddenly hit her at seeing him look so upset, and nodded silently.

"Can I get the hell out of here now?" he demanded, his eyes now devoid of any real emotion.

"Yes."

With one final glare, he slammed the door shut behind him, as Nadia sank down weakly into her chair. _What in the hell was that all about?_

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	10. Chapter 10

**Fighting back**

**A/N: I ****hope people are liking the scenario I'm trying to develop between Nadia and Doyle. Comments please!**

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The last time his dad laid a finger on him, Mike was fifteen. A growth spurt that summer had ensured that he was only a couple of inches shorter than his father, and with running and exercising he'd been doing in his free time, he'd bulked up a bit more. Wasn't so weedy and frail.

This time, when Rob whacked him around the side of the face for no reason other than Mike had got a 'B' on a science paper, Mike retaliated. He just couldn't take it anymore. Years of pent-up anger and fury surfaced. So, the second Rob's face hit his jaw, he lashed back out. Knocked out a couple of his dad's teeth. Bust his dad's nose too. He was surprised at his own strength as his dad stumbled to the floor.

He was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to stop at just those few hits, had to force himself to calm down and move away. Hands shaking in anger, face white with rage.

It wasn't the first time he lost control, but was the first time he'd let anyone else see it.

It wouldn't be the last.

His dad had stared up at him in shock, wiping the blood off his nose. "You hit me…" he said almost dumbly, voice slurred by drink.

"You deserve a _lot _worse," Mike snapped, looking down at his bruised fist, disturbed at his own aggression which had fully been brought to the fore after so long. "Don't you ever lay another hand on me, alright? Otherwise I'll go to the cops, tell them what you've done to me for the past five years. Looking at you, lying there like the town drunk that you are, I'm pretty sure they'll know who to believe." His heart was racing as he studied his dad, feeling sick that he'd fallen so low as to resort to violence himself, and that he'd finally challenged the man who had abused him for so long.

Rob was watching his son, fascinated, as he wiped his mouth. "So, you finally grew a spine. I figured that I'd beat some kind of courage and respect into you eventually."

Mike tossed him a washcloth in disgust, his face hard, no longer regretting his own retaliation; "no _dad_, the only thing you beat into me was fear. Respect you? I _despise_ you for what you've done to me. I always will."

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So Nadia had his personnel file. Doyle's stomach twisted as he glanced up at her office window. She was seated at her desk, talking to someone on the phone, and his stomach welled with nerves. She knew about Denver, presumably about his fight with Milo, though probably not what it was over. She'd probably hate him even more for that, though he doubted she'd let her feelings show.

Nadia was always professional.

Unlike him.

His file was something he'd been praying _wouldn't_ be forwarded onto LA. He wasn't exactly proud of the contents though he knew Nadia knew some of it already. Numerous warnings, disciplinary action, disagreements with co-workers… it read like some kind of 'How not to be a CTU agent' manual. Doyle knew he'd been treading a pretty fine line there, and now she'd know too. Morris's comment about being 'Denver's golden boy' couldn't be further from the truth, and now the file would show Nadia that. Denver had wanted him out- they didn't like the harsh way he operated, despite his success rate in breaking suspects and catching criminals, and his stony attitude was an embarrassment to them. His personnel file was more ammunition on how to get rid of him from _any_ CTU agency, which he guessed she'd probably want to do soon, after the way he'd snapped at her in her office yesterday. Sometimes he just couldn't control his temper, but he regretted it deeply now.

She just seemed to lead his thoughts to places he wasn't prepared for them to go.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"You OK?" Morris asked.

"_I'm fine_," Doyle retorted. "I wish people would quit asking me that!" His expression softened a little at the expression on his colleague's face, "sorry Morris.. I'm just having a bad day."

Morris nodded, a little uncertainly as he went back to work, wondering what had prompted the apology. Doyle usually didn't care _who_ he upset.

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_Denver, three years earlier…_

"Hey Doyle, phone for you… some guy from the coroners office."

Doyle looked up as he unzipped his vest. "What?"

"Coroner on the phone," Milo repeated impatiently. "For you."

Doyle slid his gun and vest back into his locker, wondering what the hell this was about. He'd just gotten back in from an attempted hospital bombing in downtown Denver, and wasn't in the mood to make small talk with anyone.

"Did he say what it was about?"

Milo's expression was deliberately blank. "Something to do with your father."

"Fine. I'll take it in my office. Put him through." Mike's stomach twisted a little at the mention of his dad. He'd had no contact with him for nearly fifteen years now. Which was the way he wanted it to be. He'd moved to Denver for Christ's sakes to get away from him and any memories of his childhood. Was this call about what he _thought_ it was?

Doyle sat down at his desk and picked up the handset. "Mike Doyle speaking."

"Mr Doyle, this is John Ball from the LA County Coroners Office. I'm afraid I'm calling with bad news. I'm sorry to say that your father passed away this morning."

…….

"Mr Doyle?"

"I'm here." His voice was cold, emotionless. He felt… nothing. Completely emotionless.

Detached.

No different to usual.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Mr Doyle."

"Don't be. He's not worth anyone's sympathy."

"You're listed as his next of kin, Mr Doyle. I need you to tell me what you want me to do with the body."

"How did he die?"

"Alcohol poisoning. His liver gave out."

"That figures."

Silence for a couple more seconds. "Mr Doyle, I realise you're upset and this is an emotional time for you, but I have to release the body to you so you can make the funeral arrangements."

"Don't bother."

"Excuse me?"

"I want no part of _any_ of it. Release the body to the county to be dealt with, I want nothing more to do with that man, not even his corpse. I don't care what you do with him. He means nothing to me and I certainly won't be shedding any crocodile tears over his

casket."

"You Ok, Doyle?" Milo asked him thirty minutes later, as he knocked on Doyle's door, a big stack of paperwork in his hands. He didn't like the guy, hell, not many people here did. He was a good agent, probably one of the best, but had a huge chip on his shoulder, he was always acting like the whole world was out to get him. He was argumentative, abrupt, sometimes downright rude to people. The two men tolerated each other for the sake of work, but they didn't get along, hadn't ever since Milo had transferred out here from LA a couple of years previously and had started working for the Comms staff.

Milo knew the coroners call had been about Mike's father's death, but he was pretty surprised to see Doyle working like nothing untoward had happened.

"I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" Doyle's voice was clipped.

"I'm sorry about your dad," Milo said hesitantly.

Doyle shrugged as Milo deposited the papers on his desk. Milo hovered a little around his desk, wanting to say something else, and Doyle looked up, irritated. "Is that all?"

"Yeah. That's all."

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Doyle heard back from the coroner once more, he'd called to let him know that his father was being buried the following Thursday. Doyle didn't care.

Milo bore the brunt of his anger. He'd overheard Doyle's end of the call, guessed what it was about.

"You aren't going to your own father's funeral?" he'd questioned, aghast.

"What's it to you?" Doyle had snapped.

"Well, no matter how many times I get mad with my dad, I can't imagine not paying my respects to him if he died…" Milo's voice trailed off, perturbed by the anger he saw in Doyle's eyes.

"You don't know anything about him, or me, so I suggest you shut up."

"He's your father…"

"He means nothing to me, and this is _nothing_ to do with you."

"Look man, I'm just saying---"

"I don't give a _shit_ what you're just saying," Doyle growled, suddenly shoving Milo viciously back against the wall. "Keep your nose out of my goddamn business, alright? I don't want or _need_ your opinions."

Milo nodded, startled as he watched Doyle storm to the locker room. Whatever had rattled his cage had certainly unleashed some kind of animalistic anger, and suddenly he felt kind of afraid.

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Thinking back to that day now, Doyle winced a little. That encounter with Milo had earned him yet another disciplinary in his file. The Director of Denver CTU had overheard the tale-end of the conversation, warned Doyle over his aggressiveness. One more black mark against him, but hell, what did that matter?

He regretted losing it with Milo though, even though they hadn't got on, he'd been a good guy. A real hero. He'd died for Nadia, and Mike was grateful to him for protecting her, even if for nothing else. When people had been so sure she was an enemy combatant, working with the terrorists, he had been the one to staunchly defend her. If anyone should have died that day, it should have been him. Milo had so much more to live for than he ever would.

Involuntarily, his eyes drifted up to Nadia's office now. She'd finished her phone call, was absent-mindedly playing with a strand of her dark hair as she looked at something on her computer screen. Man, she was beautiful. Did she have any idea of how beautiful she really was?

Sometimes looking at her made his heart hurt.

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Nadia had read Doyle's file carefully. Hadn't exactly been surprised at the number of disciplinary actions and reports against it that were listed in there- some of it she already knew, by way of his reputation. Mike Doyle was renowned as a pretty ruthless guy, which was more so demonstrated by the listings in his file. Accusations of forcefulness of suspects heavily under duress featured pretty heavily. She knew that that was the way he operated. Or had done in the past. She'd even been on the receiving end of it once. She could still remember what she'd said to him that day- accused him of generating some kind of pleasure from his harsh interrogations of suspects.

She could still remember the look of hurt in his eyes, which he'd quickly masked with antipathy and then anger.

What was concerning her more than his file though now, was his state of mind. She was worried about him, had been since yesterday when he'd something had upset him in her office.

_There's no one, alright?_

No one at all? She had figured that Doyle was a loner. He didn't exactly come across as people-friendly, but thinking about it all now, she guessed that maybe he hadn't exactly had a _Walton's_ type of upbringing. It might explain a lot.

His file stated that both his parents were dead. No more information offered than that. _No next of kin_… The pain in his eyes had disturbed her though- for that one second when she'd looked into his eyes, Mike Doyle had been an open book. She now knew he was suffering. Whatever his problems were, she sensed that something had been bothering him for a long time, and that once more, he had buried it away.

She knew Doyle had argued with Milo, yet another caution against him for an alleged unprovoked attack on the younger guy. It wasn't really her business what the disagreement had been over, all that concerned her now was that Doyle was capable of doing his job.

The guy sure had issues.

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**Next time, Nadia tries to confront Doyle over what's really bothering him!**


	11. Chapter 11

**She knows: Observations from her office**

**A/N: Nadia's POV on Mike Doyle. Hope you like it! **

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Nine months later… 

She's taken to watching him sometimes from the confines of her office. Not 'spying' exactly, after all, that _is_ a felony in LA, but just observing him. The way he works. The way that sometimes he kind of stares into space, with that sad expression on his face and a lost look in those icy blue eyes of his.

It bothers her. She wants to know what it is that makes him so sad.

Mike Doyle is an enigma.

She called him on it once, tried to find out what was making him so unhappy. Only once…

They'd been working late one Thursday night about a month ago, wrapping up a load of debriefing notes on something or another, and whilst they weren't exactly having a proper conversation or anything, he seemed pretty relaxed with her. It was comfortable.

She'd called in a takeout as they ploughed through the mountain of paperwork that night. Morris was supposed to have been working back late too, but Nadia knew that all he wanted to do was go home and see Chloe and their baby Tom, now three months old and by general standards, quite a cute baby, so she took pity on him, told him to go.

Doyle didn't seem to mind too much either, he tended to roll his eyes whenever Morris made kissy-faces at the umpteen baby photos now sat proudly on his desk, or emailed Chloe fifty times a day to ask what Tom was up to now.

_He's a baby Morris. Sleeping, presumably._

So, the two of them had worked in relatively peaceful harmony for a while, and then she'd looked over and seen he was rubbing his temples as he pulled off his glasses. The way he did whenever he got a migraine. His eyes looked a little bleary. He generally looked pretty tired.

"You Ok?" she asked, concerned.

"Fine," he replied tersely.

"You taken your meds today?"

"Yes," he said grumpily, flipping through a document and marking something down with a highlighter.

"Is it your eyes, or your head?"

"Neither," he growled, "I'm just a little tired, OK?"

"You can go if you want to. I don't mind finishing up the rest."

"For God's sake Nadia, will you quit fussing?" he snapped, "I said I'm fine, alright?"

She pushed her paperwork to one side, irritated now too. "I was just trying to be nice."

"You were trying to mother me. I'm fine. I don't want or need your concern, Ok?" his voice rose a few decibels as he faced her.

"What the hell is your problem?" her angry tones matched his now, "is it so hard to accept that maybe someone's worried about you?"

"You don't need to worry about me, I'm Ok."

"I'm not just talking about the headaches," her voice softened as she looked at him; "Mike, I'm concerned about you. You—well, you don't seem happy. You always seem like you're upset about something."

He didn't meet her eyes. "I'm fine," he muttered, crossing his arms.

"You aren't," she insisted. "Look, you know you can talk to me, right? About whatever's bothering you?"

He lifted his head and met her eyes, tersely, but the expression on his face had softened somewhat. "Nothing's bothering me."

"I don't believe that. Mike, I've read your file, and I can see it in your eyes, Ok? I know that in Denver---"

"For god's sake!" he exploded at the mention of Denver and his file, slamming his fist on the desk. "Just leave me the hell alone!"

She is startled by the anger in his voice, but she sees the panic on his face. She knows right off that he isn't used to people caring about him. He hates anyone seeing his weaknesses. Feels afraid that he might ever show he's vulnerable in any way, to anyone, especially to her. "Mike—"

He thrusts his arms into the sleeve of his jacket. "If I wanted someone to psychoanalyse me Nadia, I'd go see a shrink, Ok?"

He's backing away. Pushing away any of her concerns. She bites her lip, breathes out in resignation.

"If I wanted your help, then I'd ask for it. But I don't want or need it, so just leave me alone." With those words, he pulls a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and tosses it on the desk; "this should cover my half of the takeout. I've got a headache, I'm going home." He stalks out of the office as she puts her head in her hands, shaking her head in despair.

She wants to help him. Why won't he just let someone in?

Three months later, and they've never discussed that night again. He's careful not to be alone around her now, and she's stopped asking after his welfare. Knows that it would probably only piss him off even more.

But she still cares.

Tries to show it in other ways- a tentative smile that's never returned, a question that's always tersely answered.

Looking at him she knows he's not the iceman he always comes across as. She caught a glimpse of the real person inside, all those months ago. She'd been upset after that business with Jack Bauer and Audrey Raines, had been her usual self-deprecating self, highly stressed out about a situation she felt she'd badly handled. That she'd done the wrong thing.

His voice had been calm and reassuring. He'd told her that she'd stood up when it counted. When she'd looked at him she sensed that there was more he'd wanted to say to her. When he left on a field ops mission, she'd told him to "be careful." There was more she'd wanted to say to him, too. Words didn't seem to express her true feelings adequately, but after everything, even what he'd done to her in the interrogation room, she'd sensed that maybe there was _something_ between them.

Milo had called her on her feelings for Mike. She'd fobbed him off with stupid excuses, feeling guilty in knowing that Milo cared about her, and though she liked him as a friend, it just wasn't enough. When Milo died, a part of herself died that day- a friend had sacrificed himself for her, and she knew she hadn't been worth it. To this day, it was Milo's ghost she felt ever present when she walked out into the bullpen, when it was time to make a decision, the impact it could have on others lives was always at the forefront of her mind.

But, despite her guilt over Milo, she just cannot stop thinking about Mike Doyle.

She knows that for lunch (when they actually have _time_ to eat) he prefers chicken salad (hold the tomato) and low fat mayo on rye bread. His preferred beverage of choice is a diet soda, and if they don't have time to eat a proper meal, she knows he snacks on a bag of pretzels from the vending machine.

She knows he likes to work out at the gym, has bumped into him on occasion there, though they never engage in conversation, and she knows his preferred apparatus is the treadmill, though he does undertake circuit training too.

She knows he looks good in running shorts.

On those rare occasions when they're not completely snowed under at work, unlike Morris who plays 'solitaire' or 'minesweeper' on his system, she knows that he prefers to read a book.

She knows that he is very definitely 'anti-social.' He always rejects the offers of after-work drinks, always looking a little surprised to be asked, says no, but "thanks anyway."

She knows he is left-handed.

But after the accident she knows he is now right-eye dominant.

She knows that when he gets stressed, he ruffles his blond hair so it sticks up in back. Her hands sometimes itch to smooth it back down.

She knows that he is self-conscious about the scars around his eyes.

She knows that he is still getting his headaches and that sometimes they're so bad he can't sleep.

How is it that she can know all this seemingly random trivia about him, yet _still_ not know what it is that makes him so unhappy?

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	12. Chapter 12

**I quit**

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_Four months later__…_

Doyle had been back at CTU LA for more than a year now, and whilst the term 'settled in' wasn't usually a part of his vocabulary, he had to admit that he was enjoying the job. After Field Ops, he'd never thought he could find something else that he was good at, but to his surprise, Comms seemed to suit him. His headaches had faded somewhat, though he was still sleeping pretty badly, and he still had a strong tendency to dwell far too much on the past. He still got blurred vision on occasion, still couldn't drive. These two combined tended to make him feel pretty pathetic, as he hated having to get the bus, preferred walking when he could.

He and Morris, whilst he wouldn't exactly class them as 'friends' did get along a lot better now, and a mutual respect and understanding had built between them. Doyle was a little more easy-going on Morris, who had completely mellowed since baby Tom came along. Though she didn't say anything, Nadia was impressed at the way they worked together and how he had easily slipped into his new role. They needed Doyle to stay in Comms too, as Chloe was on maternity leave indefinitely, enjoying being a mother, and had no intentions of heading back any time soon, though she was usually more than happy to assist them with problems at the other end of the phone.

One Wednesday morning however, Nadia received a pretty unpleasant phone call, which instantly put her mood way down, especially as she knew how Doyle was going to take the news.

She buzzed through to his phone.

"Doyle."

"Mike it's me, can you come up here a second please?"

"Be right there."

He knocked on her door a couple of minutes later, looking a little perturbed. "Everything Ok?"

"Not exactly," she admitted, "take a seat."

"What's up?"

"I had a call from Division a couple of minutes ago," she explained, a small frown on her face; "we're receiving a visit later today from someone to look over our new IP protocol to make sure everything's in line."

"So?" he prompted, "we're fine. That's no problem."

"Mike, the guy coming to view our stuff is Agent Johnson," she said with a small sigh.

The penny dropped right away. "_What?_" Mike demanded, his eyes angry. "As in Johnson from Denver? Johnson who…"

"Tried to make out _you _concealed evidence that would prevent me from being exonerated as a terrorist?" Nadia supplied a little quietly, "yup, that's him."

"Son of a bitch.." Mike muttered, raking his hand through his hair; "that guy's working for _Division_ now?"

"Yes, apparently so," Nadia confirmed.

"I wonder how many asses he had to kiss to wind up there," Mike hissed, "or how many people he had to screw over to get that job."

Nadia shrugged, "Mike, whatever you think or feel about him, he's coming here today to look over some stuff. I'm telling you because I didn't want you to be surprised by his presence. I know you guys have a history."

"You read the file, huh?" Mike said with a sigh, his eyes lowering.

"I know there was an investigation back in Denver," Nadia admitted, "and that you covered for him over some evidence he misplaced."

"I was stupid," Mike reasoned, "but it was my fault as much as his. I was Director of Field Ops, it shouldn't have happened under my command."

"So you took the blame too?" she questioned.

"Yeah," he answered. He figured she needed to know the truth, not just the details of what was glossed over in his file. "There was an inquiry and stuff, luckily both of us got off with a warning. Despite the missing evidence, it was pretty obvious our terrorist suspects were as guilty as hell."

"You were lucky."

"Yeah," he lifted his head and met her eyes, "I was."

"You shouldn't have taken the blame for something that wasn't your fault."

"Looking back, no, I probably shouldn't of," he agreed, "I sure as hell wouldn't cover for him again."

"So that's why he tried to get you in trouble over the remote access module that suggested I wasn't a terrorist?" Nadia ventured, "he knew the way you really felt about him and tried to make out he was returning a favour when all along he was planning to screw with you?"

"I guess," Doyle said with a sigh.

"I don't want him here any more than you do," Nadia told him squarely, "but I have to be civil to him as he's one of my direct superiors now, though god knows how."

Doyle nodded. "Can I go?"

"Sure."

He stood to leave, then turned to face her. "Thanks."

She looked up, a little surprised; "for what?"

"You didn't have to tell me he was coming here, but you did. I appreciate that."

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"You ok?" Morris asked him as he sat back down at his desk with a frown.

"Blast from the past," Doyle told him cryptically.

"Huh?"

"Agent Johnson is coming from Division this afternoon, to review our IP protocols."

"So?"

"Agent _Johnson_…"

Morris's grimaced as the name finally clicked, "that arrogant prick who tried to get you and Nadia into trouble?"

"The very same."

"That sucks."

"Tell me about it."

"Why does that guy hate you so much?" Morris enquired, curiously.

"Maybe because I know that he's an asshole." With a wince, Doyle remembered their last encounter, right before Nadia had been released from the interrogation room: "You've screwed with the wrong guy for the last time, pal," he'd told Johnson menacingly. The thing was- now that he was working for Division, who would be screwing with who?

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Right after lunch, whilst Morris and Doyle were reviewing some chatter they'd obtained on a potential terrorist threat in DC, Johnson showed up. Dressed in an expensive designer suit and with his hair impeccably groomed, he was the complete antithesis to the uncertain Field Ops agent Doyle had known back in Denver.

On his dour face, he wore a smug expression, and on his wrist a gaudy Rolex.

"Slimy son of a bitch," Morris commented idly, gesturing to him with a nod of his head.

"You don't know the half of it," Doyle replied icily.

To his chagrin, Johnson had to by-pass his work station on his way to Nadia's office; he slowed right down, a look of mock surprise on his face. "Why, Agent Doyle.. what a surprise."

"I'll bet."

"What, you're working here now? In Comms? Bit of a step down for you, isn't it? After all the excitement of being out in the field."

"I could say the same for you," Doyle said levelly, "but I prefer working here, there's less… contention in the ranks, so to speak;" he raised his head coolly, as Morris suppressed a smirk at Doyle's gall.

"Touché, Agent Doyle.. but as it happens I prefer my new post too."

"Then it worked out pretty well for both of us, didn't it?" Doyle said simply.

Johnson was looking at Doyle a little puzzled, as if waiting for more anger or something from him, but there was none. With a little frown, he turned to head up to see Nadia, then looked back as if another thought had struck him.

"Oh, and I was _terribly_ sorry to hear about your accident Agent Doyle," his voice was solemn but Doyle couldn't help but see the smirk on his face and the glint in his eye as he glared at him. "Such a _tragedy_ to lose your job in Field Ops like that, despite what you say about preferring it here, I bet you must be feeling pretty pathetic not to get to go out and shoot the bad guys anymore, and with all that interrogation you're missing out on, the terrorist count must be _way _up…"

Morris saw the anger in Doyle's eyes. "Cool it mate," he cautioned him in a low voice, "the guy's a prick. He's just trying to rile you, it's not worth it."

Morris was right, Doyle reasoned, feeling his blood boiling. The stupid bastard was just spoiling for a fight, and he wasn't going to fall for it. With a nod at Morris, he sat back down at his workstation, and focused on the data-streaming on his monitor.

Looking a little disappointed that he hadn't managed to goad him the way he wanted to, Johnson headed upstairs to Nadia's office.

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Needless to say, Nadia wasn't exactly thrilled to have Johnson sat in her office. After the stunt he'd pulled on them in the past, she didn't trust the guy an inch. He was smarmy, pompous and sneaky; god only knew what Doyle's reaction had been when he'd seen him again, despite the warning. Now that she knew why Doyle hated him so much, she could understand the animosity between them.

Johnson went through the paperwork, and she tried to speed the process up as quickly as possible. She was civil to him, but only because she had to be, she just wanted him the hell out of her office; the guy made her skin crawl.

She breathed a sigh of relief as he eventually finished reviewing the protocol and started packing his files into his briefcase.

"I was surprised to see Mike Doyle here," he commented, sorting through a stack of papers.

"Why is that?" she asked in measured tones.

"Well, the guy's a liability- surely you can see that? And quite frankly, after the way he interrogated you over a year ago, I'm pretty amazed that you'd trust the guy."

Nadia kept her voice level, but her eyes flashed in anger. "Agent Doyle was doing his job that day… and knowing what I know about the way you tried to screw him- and me- over, I'd be very careful what you say about _'trust'_ Agent Johnson. "

He held up his hands, a smug smile on his face, realising he'd gotten to her; "whoa, Miss Yassir, I'm just saying: that guy has problems- of the anger management variety, know what I mean?"

Nadia lifted her chin defiantly, "Mike Doyle has never done _anything_ to make me question his capability as a CTU agent, and if you know anything to the contrary, I suggest you tell me- if not, then with all due respect, _sir_, I'd like you to get the hell out of my office."

Furiously Johnson shoved on his jacket. "Watch your tone Miss Yassir. And for the record? I don't know _why_ you're defending Agent Doyle, but take it from me, he wouldn't thank you for it."

With crossed arms and a cold expression on her face, she watched him leave and she shut the door after him with a bang. If Doyle had worked with people like him back in Denver, was it really that surprising that he had 'anger management' issues? Hell, she'd only been sat with the guy forty-five minutes and she already wanted to punch him in the head.

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Johnson made a little detour, walking right past Doyle's desk as he headed toward the exit.

"Spoke to your girlfriend," he hissed in a low voice.

Doyle looked up in confusion; "excuse me?"

He jerked his head up to Nadia's window. "Her. Your boss. Good lay is she?"

"What?" Doyle asked incredulously, his eyes widening as he stared at the other man in bewilderment.

"Nadia Yassir. You must be doing something right in the sack Doyle, because she sure leaps to your defense pretty fast. I bet she's a right little mover…"

Doyle's eyes flashed as angrily as Nadia's had done only minutes earlier. "You shut your mouth…"

Neither guy noticed Morris standing behind them, listening to the verbal sparring intently, his eyes fixed on Johnson in disgust. What a loser. No wonder Doyle couldn't stand the guy. And now he was bringing Nadia into the equation as well? Go figure.

"What you gonna do, Doyle? Punch me? I bet you can't even see straight now," he taunted, a sneer on his ugly face. "Not that that's stopping your boss from having a go with you. Guess she likes charity cases. Didn't she have some kind of thing going with Milo Pressman too? Starts at the bottom and works her way through the ranks, is that it? Trying to sleep her way to the top? Hell, maybe I'll get lucky myself."

Doyle clenched his fists, white hot anger coursing through him. How _dare_ he talk about Nadia like that? "You either shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you," he warned, his voice dangerously low; "don't you dare talk about her like that."

He laughed a little. "You think I really care what someone like you thinks, Agent Doyle? You are nothing to me. _Nothing_."

Doyle wasn't really sure what happened: but, reflecting back afterward, he guessed that it was the taunt of 'nothing' reminding him of his father's repeated insults that made him lose it, combined with the slurs about Nadia. He punched Johnson right in the face in hot fury, sending him reeling backward, blood spurting from his nose as he yelped in agony.

"Whoa! Easy Mike!" Morris exclaimed, grabbing hold of his colleague to prevent him from doing any further damage to the fallen agent. "Jesus…"

"You broke my nose!" Johnson spluttered in anger, holding his hand to his face, "you crazy son of a bitch!"

"What the hell's going on?" Nadia exclaimed, running down the stairs at the commotion; she skidded to a halt when she saw Morris restraining a visibly irate Doyle and Johnson lying on the floor. She closed her eyes briefly. Crapcrapcrap.

A crowd had formed. "Everybody get back to work, show's over!" she snapped as they scurried back to their stations.

Johnson staggered to his feet, pointing an accusing hand at Doyle, who looked angrier than she had ever seen in her life. He was breathing hard and his face was white with rage, Morris was straining to hold him back. "He attacked me!"

"Go to hell!" he spat back.

"I'm pressing charges! I want Agent Doyle removed from the building. If you don't have security deal with him, Miss Yassir, then I will."

Doyle lifted his head and met her eyes. Some of the fire had gone now, she saw that he was looking… defeated, resigned. He'd played right into Johnsons hands and he knew it. He stopped struggling with Morris, his body relaxed.

"That's _exactly_ what you want," Morris hissed unexpectedly, glaring at Johnson "I heard the things you said, you were deliberately aggravating him. You provoked him into punching you, and if he hadn't have done it, then _I_ would."

"Watch your mouth," Johnson growled, dabbing at his bloody nose, "don't forget who you're talking to Mr O'Brien. That can also be constituted as a threat."

"I'm not likely to forget who you are," Morris shot back, "but you go around saying the things you just did, and you're _surprised _to get punched in the nose?"

Doyle was staring at Morris in astonishment. He was defending him.

"Remove Agent Doyle," Johnson scowled at Nadia, "or I'll go to Division and have all three of you ejected from the building."

"You can't do that!" Morris raised his voice in anger.

"Forget it," Doyle interjected harshly, pulling his key card from around his neck, "nobody has to 'remove me' because I quit."

Morris gaped at him in astonishment; "Mike, no…"

He dropped his key card onto the floor in front of Johnson who was looking triumphant.

"Mike, please, be reasonable about this—" Nadia stammered, "whatever it is, we can sort this out."

He shook his head sadly, "I don't think we can. I'm sorry, Nadia."

Morris and Nadia stood in shocked silence, as he quietly left the building.

"Good," Johnson said, satisfied as he snatched up the key card. "Well, I think that wraps things up around here. I'll be seeing you, Miss Yassir," with a jaunty smile, he sauntered from the building.

Mission accomplished.

Morris looked at a shell-shocked Nadia, open mouthed. "You can't let him quit," he protested.

"He just _did_," she responded, distressed. She was startled to realise she was shaking.

"That guy deliberately antagonised him into a fight," Morris argued, "I heard the whole thing."

"What was he saying?" Nadia asked, sitting down in Mike's now vacated chair, realising her stomach was in knots.

Morris looked uncomfortable. "Um, I don't really think you want to know."

Light dawned in Nadia's eyes; "he said something about me, didn't he?"

"Kind of…"

"About the interrogation?"

"Um," Morris shifted a little, "not exactly."

"Just tell me Morris," Nadia sighed deeply.

"Johnson insinuated that you two were uh, sleeping together," Morris told her quickly, "made some remarks about you um, trying to get your way to the top via, um, those means. He made some kind of wisecrack about Milo and that he wondered what you were like in the sack..."

_"What?"_ Nadia hissed, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Doyle told him to shut up, but he wouldn't," Morris supplied hesitantly, "then he made some dumb remark about his eyes, about him being 'nothing' or something like that, and I guess he just lost it. Those guys have history, we both know that."

Nadia ran her hand through her hair, "let me get this straight, Doyle was defending _me?_ _That's _the reason he punched Johnson in the nose?"

"That about sums it up."

Nadia reflected that the situation was pretty ironic and would have almost been funny if Doyle hadn't just quit his job over it. "I should have known something like this would happen," she sighed, "that guy just wanted to get Mike out right from the start. Some kind of payback for something that happened back in Denver."

"What are you going to do?" Morris asked, concerned. "You _can't _just let him quit, and if you need me to back him up against Johnson, I will."

"I guess I'm going to go and see Agent Doyle, get him to change his mind."

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**Not sure how I feel about this chapter, but I ****do**** like angry Doyle to make an appearance now and then…**


	13. Chapter 13

**Just leave**

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_Denver…_

The day of his dad's funeral, Mike had taken a day of work- not because he wanted to go to the service, _hell _would freeze over before he'd even consider that- but because he really just wanted to be on his own and think.

For the first time in his whole life, he drove to the store, got a six pack of beer and just sat on his sofa. Staring out the window at the Denver sunshine, he contemplated the alcohol sat in front of him.

He had never drank before.

He hadn't wanted to.

Seeing his dad wasted more times than he cared to remember had made him completely adverse to the idea of alcohol, but once, just this one time he considered getting drunk.

Hell, his old man would probably approve.

It wouldn't take much to get him wasted, smashed, off his face. His alcohol intolerance would probably be pretty low.

He wondered what it would be like: to lose control. Lose his inhibitions.

He surveyed the aluminium cans warily as he flicked on the TV, eyeing them almost fearfully.

Throughout college he had managed to avoid the perils of drinking favored by his peers. In fact, he figured that he had been something of an anomaly in college regardless- he'd never attended parties, social events.. preferring to work. He just wanted to make something of himself, prove that he wasn't a loser like his dad.

Yet, where had it got him? He thought angrily, channel surfing and feeling himself get more and more het up. No friends. No real life to speak of. He had dated exactly two women in his whole life and neither of them were anything great to speak of either- one a complete bimbo who he couldn't have an intelligent conversation with, though he _figured_ the sex had been OK, and the other a god fearing Christian who refused to let him kiss her apart from on the cheek.

He was pathetic.

He slowly opened one of the cans and sniffed it dubiously, making a face. It smelled foul, yeasty yet sweet at the same time. He was instantly reminded of his fathers' beery breath as he had loomed over him so many times, belt in hand.

Mike brought the can to his lips but then shuddered and set it back down on the coffee table. "I can't do this.." he whispered to himself, running a hand over his stubbled jaw in anguish.

He stood up and picked up the cans of beer and stormed through into his kitchen, where resolutely one by one, he opened them and poured them down the sink, wondering what the hell he was even so upset about. So he couldn't bring himself to _drink_, big frigging deal. As far as he was concerned, that was something to be proud of.

By the time he tipped away the third can, he realised to his chagrin that his eyes were watering and by the fifth his shoulders were heaving as he tried to fight back the tears that he so desperately wanted to avoid.

By the sixth can, he finally gave into them, as he sank down onto the kitchen floor, racked with sobs as he cried for the first time in more than ten years wishing for once that he wasn't so goddamn alone.

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_LA…_

"Stupid… stupid…" Doyle banged his head on his wall at the second syllable. He'd played right into that guys hands, hadn't he? Of all the crazy dumb-ass times he'd ever hurt anyone, this time had cost him his job.

He knew right off that Johnson would do what it took to get him right out of CTU, and he wasn't prepared to put Nadia and Morris' jobs on the line too. He'd rather quit himself than let that happen.

If only he'd just kept his fists to himself!

"Damn it," he sighed, sitting down on his sofa, finally. He'd been pacing for the last hour, ever since he'd gotten in from work. He was still pretty pissed, but didn't regret hurting Johnson. He'd deserved it for the cracks he'd made about Nadia alone.

He raked a hand through his hair and started at the sound of the doorbell.

He knew it could only be one person.

His gut twisted as he opened the door and looked at her. Did she have to look so beautiful? Even standing there with an expression on her face akin to sadness, she still looked amazing.

"Hi," she said, her voice reserved.

"Hey," he replied with a sigh, holding open the door so she could enter his apartment.

"I needed to talk to you," she began, following him down the hallway.

"You want a drink?" he interrupted, stalling for time.

"I'm fine," she said firmly. "Look Mike, what happened back there—"

"It's been on the cards for a long time," he said bluntly, "if I hadn't have punched him, something else probably would have set me off. It's time for me to go, alright?"

"What? So that's it? You just quit?" she asked incredulously.

"I'd rather me quit than you and Morris get dragged into the whole thing."

"I know what he said to you, Ok? Whatever _else_ he said had some kind of profound effect on you and it made you mad, but that's no reason to quit your job. Forget Johnson- that guys an asshole. You know it and I know it, hell _everyone_ knows it."

"It doesn't matter," when he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, she had never seen such an expression of defeat; "look Nadia, I know you've risked a lot to get me back to CTU, and I'm grateful, but I'm a liability."

"You're the best agent we have," she insists, "and you can't quit." Her eyes met his emphatically, "look Mike, it's different if you want to leave because you're unhappy in the job. But I can tell you aren't, and you're really good in Comms."

He is gratified that she notices but stills as she continues.

"But _I_ know you're not happy generally, right? Maybe this is your way of punishing yourself even more. You feel you don't deserve to have anything good happen to you? Like a decent job, maybe people who care about you?"

"What?" he snaps. It scares him that she can read him so well.

"You heard me. Look, whatever's bothering you, we can work through this."

His eyes are back to being icy. "_We_ can't work through anything. I told you before; I don't _want or need_ your help."

"You like being alone?" she challenges him, "because if you carry on like this, you're going to be alone forever."

He looks furious, his eyes narrow as he glares at her, but this time she doesn't back down. He's made her mad too- because after everything they've been through, she will not just let him roll over and quit.

"You don't know anything about me," he hisses.

"And why _is_ that?" she demands, "maybe because you're so frigging stubborn you won't let anyone in. Have you ever thought that maybe if you open up and start trusting people a little more then maybe you'll realise you don't always have to be by yourself?"

"I happen to _like_ being alone," he growls. "When are you going to get that into your goddamn head?"

"When you start saying it in a way that makes me want to believe it."

Her eyes are like fire, he can't look away from her. He feels like a deer caught in the headlights and his emotions terrify him. Whenever he is around her, he feels his heart aching and his stomach twisting. It hits him right then and there that he's falling in love with her. Feelings he always thought himself incapable of having.

He doesn't want to love anyone, least of all her.

Because he knows that she can't love him back. Why would she?

He's nothing.

He knows it, his father knew it, hell, even Johnson knows it. He reasons that eventually _she'll _realise it too, but he doesn't want to stick around for the fallout when she deduces that he's just not worth bothering with.

"Just go."

"Mike—"

"Nadia, just go!" he yells. "Just leave. Please."

Her eyes are suspiciously bright, like she's trying to mask tears or something, and he hates himself for shouting, for getting angry, but its better for him to push her away now, than hurt her later. "Is that really want you want?" she asks finally.

"Yes," he snaps.

"And you prefer being alone?"

"I just told you so, didn't I?"

"I never figured you'd be someone who'd run away from their problems."

"Just leave," he whispers.

She stands up and silently heads for the doorway. Halfway there she turns back to face him; "I meant what I said Mike," she says clearly, her eyes meeting his, "and when you get tired of facing all this on your own, you know where I live, ok?"

Without waiting for an answer, she shuts his front door quietly after herself, as Mike places his head in his hands, feeling completely and utterly miserable.

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He broods, he sulks. He knows deep down she is right.

He _doesn't_ like being alone.

And he _is _too frigging stubborn for his own good sometimes.

It's three hours later, and he's walking, not really sure of where he's going. His mind is in turmoil and he feels so stressed out that his head is aching again. It's been months since he had a pain in his head this bad. He walks blocks, aimlessly trying to sooth the tension in his temples with the fresh air, almost on auto-pilot as he pounds the pavement.

He doesn't really know where he's going, yet somehow he's not entirely too surprised when he winds up right at Nadia's front porch.

Did she mean what she said? He knows that she wants to help him, but letting her in will mean he has to tell her what happened to him. Tell her about his dad amongst other things.

He doesn't know if he can stand to see the pity in her eyes.

Maybe it's best to just forget telling her anything.

Just get the hell out of LA. Like he should have done months back.

"_I never figured you'd be someone who'd run away from their problems."_

He's not running. He's just… avoiding them for a little while longer.

Why the hell is he even here? He turns away, prepares to walk back down the block, but almost of his own volition, he knocks quickly at her door.

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Nadia broods, she sulks. She knows that she is right. Why the hell won't he just let someone in for once?

She sits on her sofa idly flicking through a fashion magazine, but she's not able to concentrate. She is fretting over Mike Doyle.

Again.

When did this mans welfare become so important to her? How did he start consuming her every conscious thought?

She knows that she's in love with him, and it hurts, because she knows that he will never love her back. He prefers being alone, he said it himself, even though she didn't entirely believe he was telling the truth.

She hugs her knees miserably as she curls up on the couch, tossing the magazine onto the floor grumpily and stares into space.

She has to head back to CTU in just under twelve hours and she knows she should get some sleep, but her mind is just too preoccupied with the events of the day, with Mike Doyle and with that asshole Johnson. She knows that even if she shuts her eyes, her mind will be working overtime and she won't be able to wind down. She groans a little and flicks on the tube, switching from one crappy show to another.

She's watching some stupid talk show when there is a knock at the door. She switches off the television curiously and pads to the door in her Snoopy slippers. When she looks through the spy hole, she is shocked to see Mike stood on her doorstep.

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**Hope you enjoyed:0)**


	14. Chapter 14

**Talk to me**

**A/N: **Hopefully this chapter won't disappoint! I've been a bit critical over it, but figured I'd post it anyway! Hope you like it.

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She opens the door slowly, just looks at him without saying anything.

He's waiting for her to tell him to go away, to get the hell off her property.

After the way he argued with her only a few hours ago, he wouldn't be at all surprised.

His stomach is somersaulting and his palms are damp, as he hesitantly meets her eyes. Uncertain of what he will see when he looks at her; he is surprised to see she is wearing a fairly neutral expression. Not one trace of anger or resentment is evident on her pretty face.

Instead, she holds open the door for him to step into her house. "Come on in," she says simply.

"Thanks," he says weakly, following her into her hallway and feeling his breath escape him in a little whoosh of relief. His eyes drift downward to her Snoopy slippers, and despite himself he raises his eyebrows.

"You want a drink?" she offers without missing a beat as she kicks them off, "tea? Coffee? Diet soda? Water?"

"Um, a water would be good thank you."

"Living room's through there," she points, her eyes lingering over his distressed face, "I won't be a second."

He nods silently as he sits down on her sofa, moving a bright throw pillow out of his way carefully taking in her home. Her house is a little larger than his, and her living room is decorated in vibrant shades of terracotta and red, giving it a real earthy feel. On the wall are reproductions of famous artists work- he recognises one by Kandinsky, another by Rembrandt. Evidently she likes colour. He is a little surprised- she seems so demure at work with her tailored pinstripe suits. Houseplants are scattered around in front of a big window leading onto an open patio covered in roses and trailing bougainvillea. A bookcase that stands in the far corner is filled to bursting with books, but from here he can't see the titles.

She returns a moment later with a glass of iced water for him, and a diet cola for herself.

"Thanks," he says quietly, as she sits down opposite him.

"You ok?" she asks. A stupid question, she knows, as he is clearly not. He is so tense his shoulders are rigid, as he sits ramrod straight on her sofa. She can tell he is uncomfortable to be here, but she knows why he's came.

She realises he's nervous as hell, she waits for him to speak. Instead, he shakes his head mutely in answer and stands up, walking over to the window and looking out at the patio. "I like your house," he ventures after a moment.

"Thank you," she says with a small smile as they sit in strained silence for a couple more minutes. She knows that whatever he's came here to say will be hard for him, difficult. She doesn't push him; instead she figures that if she shares something with him, maybe he'll open up to her a little more.

"You know, I didn't speak to my mom and dad for more than ten years," she says after a couple of moments.

He stills and looks down at her. Finally she seems to have his undivided attention. "You didn't?"

"Nope," she shakes her head a little sadly.

"How come?"

"My dad mostly," she replies, running her little finger over the rim of her glass. "When I was sixteen, they tried to get me to marry some guy, back in Pakistan."

His eyes widen a little, "like an arranged marriage?"

She nods.

"That still goes on in Muslim households?" he asks, sitting down in the chair opposite her again. Curiosity at her circumstances briefly takes his mind off his own situation and the reason he came here.

"Not all of them. But my dad is pretty old-fashioned about things like that. We'd been living in the States since I was six, but his mind-set was still back in Pakistan."

"What did you do?" he's interested, despite himself.

"I refused to marry a guy I didn't know and didn't love," she said simply, "so they disowned me. I left. Went to stay with some cousins out in California, and I've been in LA ever since. End of story I guess. They never really approved of what they considered to be my 'Westernised' lifestyle right from when I was a kid."

"They just cut you off, completely? Just because you didn't want to get married?" he's a little surprised by the story, and the fact that she's been through something like that. Maybe she _does_ know a little something about pain and anger.

"It hurt," Nadia admits, "I missed seeing my younger sister's growing up, and I missed my parents, despite what they did to me. We started talking again about six years ago, but even now I think my dad resents that I don't embrace a fully Muslim lifestyle like they do."

He's silent as she finishes telling her story, but his eyes ask her: _Why are you telling me this?_

She meets his eyes and it's like she's reading his thoughts. "I guess I'm telling you this to-- to try and make you see that things happen, that sometimes when you're young you don't really have any control over them, that bad things _can_ happen to you, and it's _not_ your fault. _Despite_ what other people tell you. For ten years, my dad made me believe I brought shame on our entire family.." she breathes out a little: "I guess what I'm trying to say--- is that I know something happened to you a long time ago, and I know that whatever it is, is still messing with your head now."

She looks at him imploringly. "And if you want to tell me Mike, I meant what I said: I'm here to listen."

He's silent, just looking blankly at her for a few moments, gazing into those emotional brown eyes of hers. Thinking back to earlier when he got mad and yelled at her, told her to leave him alone. After the times he's insulted her, shouted at her, pushed her away, she's sat here willing to talk to him, and for some reason, god knows why, she still seems to care.

"Why?" he stammers, at loss for words.

"Why what?" she asks, looking a little puzzled.

"Why are you still offering to listen to me, after everything I said and did? I've been horrible to you Nadia, right from the start. God, I _interrogated you_… _I hurt you_… and since I've been back at work I've been a complete asshole to you. I shouldn't be allowed out into the public…I'm a complete liability...They're right: I'm nothing..."

"You always put yourself down like that?" her calm voice brings him back to himself.

"What?"

"I've noticed you have pretty low self esteem Mike," she says gently, "but I'm wondering who 'they' were who told you that you were 'nothing.' Nobody should _ever_ be made to feel like that. You aren't nothing_. You could never be nothing_."

He's startled at her observations, by the fierceness in her voice, and swallows hard.

"You didn't answer my question. Do you always put yourself down like that?"

"You didn't answer _my_ question," he retorts, his voice faltering a little; "why do I even matter to you?"

She lifts her head, and her beautiful smile is surprisingly gentle. "Why do you think?"

Panic wells in him as he suddenly realises.

She's telling him she has feelings for him.

_For him_.

After everything he did to try and push her away she's still here and she's admitting she cares. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve someone like her to be nice to him.

The realisation that her feelings go deeper for him than that of a colleague fills him with wonder, but also fear. Kind of like the way he felt earlier when he realised he was falling in love with her- he'd never ever expected her to feel something _back._ He abruptly stands up and pushes his hand through his hair, realising that he is shaking. His hands tremble.

She's sitting there silently, not saying anything, not pressurising him to speak. Her brown eyes regard him softly and to his horror he feels tears springing to his eyes. He bites them back and rubs the bridge of his nose defeatedly.

"You can't…" he finally says, meeting her eyes.

"I can't what?" she supplies.

"You can't possibly care about me after the way I've treated you."

"Don't tell me what to feel, Mike," she says simply, standing up and facing him. He towers over her petite frame, but suddenly feels like he is shrinking from the intensity in her eyes, "I've cared about you right from the start, and the feelings aren't going to go away, because God knows, I've tried to ignore them, but I just can't."

She reaches out and runs her palm down his jaw, as he starts at the unexpected contact with her. Her skin is soft and warm, and whilst every iota of his being is telling him to run, for the first time he doesn't.

"I'm messed up…" he whispers, closing his eyes as she brushes a strand of hair from his eyes, revelling in the feel of her gentle fingertips.

"I know," she admits with a rueful smile, "I kind of figured that out from day one..."

He opens his eyes and this time instead of ice they are a vivid blue, she is overcome by the emotion she sees there as he looks down at her. He is frightened by his feelings and his voice shakes as he speaks, it takes him every ounce of courage he possesses to tell her what he knows he needs to and something he's never told anyone else before; "I—I care about you, too."

She smiles and her heart sings in relief, even as her eyes well with tears. "Then please just talk to me."

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They sit on her sofa and she can see he doesn't know where to begin. He opens his mouth to speak a couple of times, stops, and then runs an aggrieved hand through his hair in frustration. He feels hot, flustered.

Anxious.

"Take your time," she says softly, "I'm not going anywhere."

As he looks at her, he realises she means it. His feelings for this woman overwhelm him and suddenly he can't comprehend the situation. Is he really contemplating telling her everything?

_I've cared about you right from the start…_

Yes. He'll tell her. Because she's right. It's messing with his head, and sometimes things get too much for him to deal with on his own. Maybe, for the first time ever, he doesn't want to be alone anymore.

She is the first person he has ever trusted.

And for some insane reason, despite everything he's said and done to her, she has feelings for him.

"My dad--" he begins, then pauses, he looks at her and her eyes are encouraging him to continue, so he does; "my dad used to beat me."

Tears sparkle in her eyes as he continues; ".. when I was ten years old, my mom walked out on us. He used to hit her, and when she left, I became his new punch bag."

"You were ten?" she asks carefully. She'd guessed of a story in a similar vein, but she'd had no idea he'd been abused from such a young age. No wonder he was messed up, didn't like people getting close to him, had issues with trust… her heart breaks for him as he resumes his story.

"I was ten," he confirms, the expression on his face bitter. "He was an alcoholic.. typical scenario I know. I used to hide under the bed when he started ranting and raving, my mom would always hide with me, but she'd left and I was on my own. She—" he takes a deep breath, "she always used to promise that she'd never leave me.."

"Where did she go?" Nadia asks him softly. She'd known it would be bad, but had never expected something like this.

"I don't know," he replies, "she left a note on the mantle one day and I found it when I got in from school. All it said was 'sorry, I can't take this anymore' or something to that effect. I never heard from her again."

"Ever?" Nadia is shocked to the core that someone could abandon their own child, vanish without a trace… leave their own son with someone so violent.

"Ever," he confirms with a frown, "even to this day." His voice falters a little again, "I figure now, that it got so bad for her that instead of just running, maybe she went away and killed herself," he contemplates this scenario, "there was no reports of a body or anything though, but I guess I wouldn't blame her, I used to think about it myself all the time. That's why she's listed as 'dead' in my file, because to me, I guess she is."

A tear spills down her cheek as she imagines the pain and confusion he must have gone through at having his mother leave him like that; to know that he was completely on his own with a deadbeat father who would hurt him. "You've never tried tracking her down?"

"I didn't want to," he admits, "I know he hit her, but I was her kid, and she left me with him, so he could hurt me too. She'd _know_ that, what he would do to me. I—I guess I can't forgive her."

She nods, not judging. Understanding.

"The first time he hit me was the night she left, I was hiding under my bed and he dragged me out and started laying into me. After that, the beatings just became more and more frequent…"

"What set him off?" Nadia asks in horror, her heart aching for him.

"Little things," Mike replied, "once he kicked me and broke three of my ribs because he said it was my fault he got fired from his job, but mainly it was the booze I guess- it turned him into some kind of animal. He used to spend whatever money he had on alcohol, and he used to gamble too. Some times I went days without eating anything. I had to get a paper route and I cleaned cars, just so I could buy food so I didn't starve."

"Oh Mike..."

"I was pretty messed up at school. My grades slipped and stuff for a couple of years, I lost all my friends, I just didn't want people to know what was happening to me. Even though he was hitting me, he was still my _dad_, y'know? I guess I always hoped he could change," his smile is bitter again, "but he never did. He just got worse."

"Didn't you tell anyone what was happening to you?" she asks desperately, "I mean, the bruises—"

"He was pretty good at hitting me in places where the bruises didn't show so much, he hardly ever marked my face. I think maybe some of my teachers figured what was happening but I always made out I was fine. Even in _July _I wore sweaters, just to hide the marks- the cuts and the bruises. One time he lashed my back with his belt buckle so many times that I probably should have had stitches but I was scared to go to the hospital in case people asked questions. I always used to try and clean myself up and try and forget about it- at least until the next time--- but I still have the scars. I---I think most of all though, I was ashamed and that's why I didn't tell nobody. I didn't want anyone to know about what he was doing to me."

She wipes at her damp cheeks. His face is impassive as he's telling her this, but his hands are shaking. "You had _nothing _to be ashamed over," she tells him fiercely, "you still don't."

He shrugs but she can tell with a pang of sadness, that he doesn't really believe her, "after a while, I think I just got used to the beatings. They became a way of life. Sometimes I managed to get away from him, but more often than not he used to drag me out of bed and just lay into me for no reason. Once I ran away, but the cops dragged me back, and that night he laid into me and broke my arm. I did go to the hospital this time and he told the doctors I'd been in a car crash-they believed him because my injuries were so bad. "

She gasps in horror; "Oh god..."

"The last time he hit me I was fifteen," Mike says quietly, taking a deep breath, "but this time I hit him back. He made me so angry, I just lashed out, I couldn't help it... after that, he never laid a hand on me again. He was still a negligent parent and he still yelled at me, but he didn't touch me. I left home at eighteen and went to college, managed to get a scholarship and worked two jobs to get by... I think I only saw him once more after that, right after I graduated, when he turned up drunk at my apartment, asking for money. Then I got the job training with Field Ops and moved out to Denver to get the hell away from him."

"What happened to him?" Nadia asks. She wants to hold him, soothe away his pain but a part of her is scared he'll back away from her, and she can't stand the thought of that- not when they're making so much progress.

"He died," Mike replies tonelessly, "of alcohol poisoning. His liver gave out three years ago."

"Oh." She doesn't say she's sorry, because she's not, and she knows _he_ isn't either. He hurt him, and he should have been made to pay for what he did. Dying was too easy. She realises there's still things Mike's not telling her, but she knows that in time, maybe he will.

"I didn't go to the funeral," he ventures after a moment's silence. He feels exhausted, drained after getting so much off his chest in one go. She can see he's tired.

"I wouldn't have gone to the funeral either," she tells him, and he instantly feels relieved, not to be judged. How is it that she always knows to say the right thing to make him feel better?

"I argued with Milo over it back in Denver," he confesses, ashamed, "I regret that now."

"Did Milo know the circumstances and what your father did to you?" Nadia asks.

"No."

"Then he couldn't possibly understand," Nadia tells him simply. "I don't think anyone could, unless they've been through it themselves."

"I feel bad for it though," Doyle admits, "I never told him that I regretted that, and I know you guys were close... h—he saved your life."

"He was a good friend," Nadia says carefully.

He lifts his head and looks at her, a little confused, his mind whirling; "just a _friend_? I thought…" his voice trails off uncertainly.

"He had feelings for me," Nadia replies with a sad smile, "but I didn't return them the way I knew he _wanted_ me to. Maybe in different circumstances, I could have because he was such a sweet guy, but I didn't. I've felt bad about that ever since. He sacrificed himself for me, and I didn't deserve it."

"You guys weren't… together?"

"No," she tells him honestly. "He kissed me, but that was as far as it went." There is a look in his eyes now and she can't read it. She wants to tell him that all thoughts about Milo flew out of her head the second she set eyes on him, but she doesn't want to freak him out. Instead she waits, can practically see the wheels turning in his mind as he ponders whether or not to tell her something.

"I was jealous of Milo," he admits eventually as her heart thuds a little more quickly. "That first day at CTU… what I said about you two wanting to—about him wanting to get into your pants—" his voice trails off, ashamed, "I was mad, because I thought you guys had something and I wanted it to be _me_."

She gapes a little at this unexpected confession; "you were _jealous_?"

"As hell," he says wryly, standing up and gazing out the window again. Suddenly it is easier to be honest with her and it helps if those gorgeous eyes of hers are not distracting him. "I was attracted to you right off, then I had to interrogate you…" he swallows, "I'm so sorry I had to hurt you. You have to believe me; I never wanted to make you feel like that. I hate myself for what I did to you. I was ready to quit after that day--- the way you looked at me when I had my hands on your throat—" his voice cracks a little, "and what you said about me liking hurting people? I can remember it even now."

"You were doing your job," she is still staring at him in amazement, never ever expecting him to say the things he has. "You said you regretted it at the time. I don't hold it against you."

"You should," he says more clearly now, "I've never forgiven myself for it."

"Mike..." she stands up and stands behind him, seeing a mixture of emotions so clearly etched out on his face reflected in the glass, the flush that has risen in his cheeks.

"I'm not using what happened to me as an excuse," he finally says, biting his lip. "But you asked me to tell you, so I am. Nadia, I'm screwed up- I'm in the habit of throwing my weight around and I can be selfish. I'm not great in relationships. I've dated two women my whole life and neither seriously. I feel self conscious because of these scars on my face and I'm not so great with people anyways, especially now I figure they're looking at me thinking I'm—ugly I guess. I'm argumentative, stubborn as hell and I get angry. Little things set me off. Like today- Johnson? I hit him because he said I was nothing. That's what my dad always used to call me: _nothing_. I guess it triggered memories or something, but I was so mad with what he said about you and that comment, that I just couldn't stop myself from lashing out. I've been on this downward spiral for a long time, now I've quit my job over it, and I'm worried that one day I'll really hurt someone, maybe I really need to go to counselling or something.." he breathes out and she sees how distressed he is, as he continues: "I just don't want the person I hurt to be _you_."

"I know you'd never hurt me," she tells him softly. "I trust you." With a gentle smile, she runs her fingers lightly over his reddened skin around his eyes; "and your scars certainly don't bother me. I barely notice them anymore; right from when I first met you I thought you were the most handsome guy I'd ever seen," a shy smile creeps across her face at the admission; "everything else I figure we can take one step at a time…any _other_ reasons why you figure I wouldn't want to be with you? Any other get out clauses?"

His eyes look a little watery, bright from tears that he tries to hide. His heart beats a little faster at her sincerity as he shakes his head mutely. He's run out of excuses, but maybe he doesn't want or need to make them any more.

"And for the record?" she says with a little smile, "Johnson _totally_ had it coming when you hit him. Morris has said that you _have_ to get your ass back to work because he can't run Comms without you. If Johnson does press charges, which I think is pretty unlikely after a load of dirt I just managed to uncover about him at Division, then Morris is more than willing to testify that Johnson goaded you and deliberately provoked you."

"He is?"

"Yup, and I can testify to Johnsons mood in my office. I know he came to CTU today expressly with the intention of getting you fired. _Don't let him win_."

"You want me to come back too?" he asks, looking down at her.

"I kind of like having you around," she says with a small smile, the expression in her eyes moving from solemn to teasing.

"I—"

Whatever he is about to say is cut off by her kiss. She has to stand on tiptoe to brush her lips against his, and she does so very hesitantly, as if fearing he'll pull away from her.

He jumps a little at the unexpected contact, but he doesn't resist her.

Not now.

His lips are soft and warm, and she can taste the cool mintiness of his breath, smell the alluring scent of his aftershave. As if by mutual understanding, the kiss is deepened and he tangles his hands in her hair, pulling her closer to him, their lips clashing urgently. Passionately. His hard shoulder blades tense under her hands as she reflects a little dizzily that no kiss has _ever_ made her feel like this.

And the way she feels about Mike?

It still hurts her heart, but this time it's a _good_ kind of hurt.

Because she loves him so much that her feelings overwhelm her.

And she figures that maybe in time, he can love her too.

Mike's head is spinning as he kisses her, feeling her small hands clinging tightly to his shoulders and tasting the pleasant fizziness from the diet coke lingering sweetly on her lips. If he'd have known kissing Nadia Yassir would have made him feel like this, he would have done it a hell of a lot sooner.

Well, maybe not. But he sure hopes he'll get the chance to do it again.

And again.

Because he can't think of anything else that's ever meant so much to him as the woman who fits snugly in his arms and he figures that maybe this is some kind of dream and pretty soon he's going to wake up and he wants to get in all the kisses that he can.

When they pull apart for air, she smiles up at him as he just gazes down at her, something not dissimilar to awe in those amazing eyes of his, and then, for the first time ever, she sees him smile. Is astounded by the way it lights up his handsome face.

"You're still here," he murmurs softly, running his hand gently down her jaw with a tenderness she'd never expected him to possess as he looks wonderingly at her.

"And _you're _smiling," she says happily; she can't help stating the obvious.

"Yeah," he says with a shy little grin that fascinates her as he pushes a lock of her brown hair out of her eyes, his own eyes searching her face for any kind of regret. To his relief there is none. She looks as blown away by the kiss as he feels. "Um, I was thinking that that was a pretty amazing kiss. Just what I needed after today…"

"Me too," she replies, a little timidly, cheeks flushed as she looks up at him, her heart beating a little faster at the way his eyes have lit up when he looks at her- there is a happy expression on his face that she never dreamed she would see and it melts her heart; "So what happens now?"

"Well," he says a little nervously as he bites his lip, "I'm not so experienced in all this kind of stuff, but um, maybe I can take you out to dinner sometime? I mean, if you wanted to, that is…"

"I got a better idea," she says with a smile, knowing how he feels about social situations, but liking the fact that he wants to take her to dinner, despite his own anxieties. She doesn't want to push him- just one step at a time is fine with her. One brick falling one by one. "Maybe popcorn, a movie and curled up on the sofa with you on Friday night?"

He can't stop the grin from spreading right across his face this time. "I'd like that a lot."

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**Feedback will make me smile****- cheesy? I know, but I thought they deserved some kind of happiness. Have two more small chapters after this, which I will post ASAP.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Q&A**

**A/N: Pure fluffiness- sorry, I thought the story could do with a little light-heartedness to thank people for putting up with so much angst in my earlier chapters! Originally considered writing something a bit naughty, but nah, I just couldn't resist chucking this chapter in instead. Only one more to go after this…**

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Their first 'date' two days later isn't exactly conventional. But then again, nothing about these two ever is.

They're curled up on his sofa playing twenty-or rather fifty- questions, with a buttery dish of popcorn sat in between them. Now that he's finally started opening up to her, she wants to tear those bricks down one-by-one.

He is feeling surprisingly relaxed by this impromptu Q&A session. The movie is long forgotten and he can't even remember what the hell they were watching anyway, he is so distracted by having Nadia this close to him. His strong arms are tender around her as she rests her head against his chest. She hears the steady rhythm of his heart, and her hands link with his as she smoothes her fingers delicately across his palm, little spidery patterns that make it hard for him to focus on anything else except the way she feels and the cool fragrance of her perfume.

He was somewhat hesitant to hold her at first, as if fearing she would back away from him. He's been insecure for so long its pretty hard to get out of the habit. Maybe she'd changed her mind… he still figured that someone like him could never be good enough for someone like her. Had been waiting for her to call and say she'd changed her mind. That their kiss had been a mistake.

That _she'd _made a mistake.

She sensed his anxiety right off, remedied the situation and dispelled any of his feelings of nervousness by casually snuggling against him.

Pretty soon he'd pulled her into his arms.

He can't believe how good it feels.

Its like she's always been there.

He knows that this is the way it was always meant to be.

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"Um, favourite colour?"

She thinks for a moment. "Don't really have one, you?"

"Blue."

"Why blue?"

"It reminds me of the ocean. What's your favourite food?" he plays with a strand of her silky hair.

"Anything Mexican. You?"

"Thai food but I eat anything."

She smiles and snuggles closer to him, distracted from her train of thought by the soft kiss he drops onto her forehead, "mmmm… oh yeah, my turn. Um, favourite movie?"

"Raging Bull, Robert De Niro," he doesn't hesitate with the answer.

She rolls her eyes a little; "ugh, that is such a _guy_ answer."

"What's yours? I bet yours is a _total_ chick flick."

She blushes, a little reluctant to answer; "um, Pretty Woman."

"See?"

"Yeah, OK, point taken. Favourite book?"

"Anything science fiction wise I guess."

"You a trekkie?" she teases as she looks up at him.

"No way!" he protests, "I mean _good_ sci-fi. Arthur C Clarke and stuff. Don't _laugh_, they're cool, seriously…what about you?"

"Anything by Stephen King, though I must confess I do like the odd trashy romance novel by Danielle Steel. Well, OK I've read _all_ of them but… Hey, what are _you _laughing at…?"

So on it goes. It's comfortable with them.

Relaxed.

Easy.

A stark contrast to only weeks earlier when they couldn't even have any kind of civilised conversation without breaking into a disagreement, and she couldn't look at him without seeing some kind of pain in his eyes. Now he is smiling at her, and even his eyes look happy.

She reflects that it feels right for them, to be here together like this.

This was always the way it was meant to be.

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	16. Chapter 16

**She knows why**

**A/N: Final chapter, methinks. I've had fun writing and I hope you've enjoyed reading. Going to go and w****ork on some other stories now- possibly another Nadia/Doyle on the horizon! Thought this chapter kind of ties things up nicely in relation to the first chapter and I ****do**** like a happy ending… This is for those who reviewed- (thanks guys- you've kept me going!), and for anyone else who's liked the story!**

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She loves him, and now she knows why.

He's wooed her- but not _just_ with flowers, with his courage, his dignity, and most of all that hesitant smile that now creeps onto his face at the most unexpected of times.

He no longer puts up a stony façade; he lets her in to his thoughts and feelings. He is honest with her and it makes her proud to know that she is the one he trusts.

When she looks into his blue eyes, she no longer sees ice. He still feels pain and hurt but he no longer hides it from her. His eyes now burn with a passion that is intended for her to see.

He no longer tries to push her away from him, because he understands that now that she wouldn't _let_ him.

She is still his boss, and they still argue, but the best part is making up. All hell can still break loose but people find that now they _can't _separate them. Ten minutes after fighting, they are laughing.

She can still shout just as loud as he can.

But she now _knows_ that behind his abrupt, argumentative demeanour he's _not_ a ruthless bastard. Sheknows that a long time ago, someone hurt him, and since then, he's never been the same.

But slowly, as the bricks start to crumble, he lets her into his life.

It makes her love him all the more, and she now knows with certainty that he loves her right back.

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He likes to watch her sleep.

It's been four months now, and still the sensation of having her lying next to him seems so new. The way she curls up beside him, warm body soft against his.

Occasionally she dreams, her eyelids flutter. Once she talked in her sleep. Said his name.

It made him smile.

Now when he smiles, he _always_ means it. She makes him laugh and he can't believe how good it feels to be happy.

The lead weight is gone from his stomach, and his heart no longer aches.

He met her.

And he fell in love.

And he was lucky enough to have her love him back.

He _isn't _nothing.

That's what she always tells him.

And this time he believes it.

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**Thanks for reading:0)**


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